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O*  LOVE 

DNAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 

II         II 

.lOHN  GALSWORTfiY 

THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

GIFT  OF 


^nri'^tn   .,>.c^ov,'t.n 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2007  with  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


http://www.archive.org/details/bitoloveplayinthOOgalsiala 


PLAYS  BY 

JOHN  GALSWORTHY 


THE  SILVER  BOX 

JOY 

STRIFE 

JUSTICE 

THE  LITTLE  DREAM 

THE  ELDEST  SON 

THE  PIGEON 

THE  FUGITIVE 

THE  MOB 

A  BIT  O'  LOVE 


A  BIT  O'  LOVE 


A  BIT  O'  LOVE 

A    PLAY     IN     THREE    ACTS 

BY 

JOHN  GALSWORTHY 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S   SONS 

1915 


COPTRIOHT,   1915,    BT 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


Published  June,  1915 


PERSONS  OF  THE  PLAY 

Michael  Stranqwat 

Beatrice  Stranqwat 

Mrs.  Bradmerb 

Jim  Bere 

Jack  Cremer 

Mrs.  Burlacombb 

Bdrlacombe 

Trustaford 

Jahland 

Cltst 

Freman 

godleigh 

Sol  Potter 

Morse,  and  Others 

Ivy  Burlacombb 
Connie  Trustaford 
Gladts  Freman 
Mercy  Jarland 
TiBBY  Jarland 
Bobbie  Jarland 


b463; 


SCENE:    A  VILLAGE  OF  THE  WEST 

Th»  Action  ■passes  on  Ascension  Day. 


ACT  I.  Stkangwat's  rooms  at  Burlacombb's.    Morning. 

ACT  II. 

SCENE  I.  The  Village  Inn. 
SCENE  II.  The  same. 
SCENE  III.  Outside  the  church. 


ACT  III. 

SCENE  I.  Sthangwat's  rooms. 
SCENE  II.  Buklacombe's  bam. 


Evening. 


ACT  I 

It  is  Ascension  Day  in  a  village  of  the  West.  In  the 
low  paneUed  haU-sittingroom  of  the  Bublacombes' 
farmhouse  on  the  village  green,  Michael  Strang- 
WAY,  a  clerical  collar  round  his  throat  and  a  dark 
Norfolk  jacket  on  his  back,  is  playing  the  flute 
before  a  very  large  framed  photograph  of  a  woman, 
which  is  the  only  picture  on  the  walls.  His  age  is 
about  thirty -five;  his  figure  thin  and  very  upright 
and  his  clean-shorn  face  thin,  upright,  narrow,  with 
long  and  rather  pointed  ears;  his  dark  hair  is 
brushed  in  a  coxcomb  off  his  forehead.  A  faint 
smile  hovers  about  his  lips  that  Nature  has  made 
rather  full  and  he  has  made  thin,  as  though  keeping 
a  hard  secret;  hut  his  bright  grey  eyes,  dark  round 
the  rim,  look  out  and  upwards  almost  as  if  he  were 
being  crucified.  There  is  something  about  the  whole 
of  him  that  makes  him  seen  not  quite  present.  A 
gentle  creature,  burnt  within. 

A  low,  broad  window  above  a  window-seat  forms  the 
background  to  his  figure;  and  through  its  lattice 
panes  are  seen  the  outer  gate  and  yew-trees  of  a 
churchyard  and  the  porch  of  a  church,  bathed  in 
May  sunlight.  The  front  door  at  right  angles  to  the 
1 


«  A  BIT  O'  LOVE  ACT  i 

window-seat,  leads  to  the  milage  green,  and  a  door 
on  the  left  into  the  house. 
It  is  the  third  movement  of  Veracini's  violin  sonata  thai 
Strangwat  plays.  His  back  is  turned  to  the  door 
into  the  house,  and  he  does  not  hear  when  it  is  opened, 
and  Ivy  Burlacombe,  the  farmer's  daughter,  a  girl 
cf  fourteen,  smaU  and  quiet  as  a  mouse,  comes  in, 
a  prayer-book  in  one  hand,  and  in  the  other  a  glass 
of  water,  vnth  wild  orchis  and  a  bit  of  deep  pink 
hawthorn.  She  sits  dovm  on  the  vnndow-seat,  and 
having  opened  her  book,  sniffs  at  the  flowers.  Com- 
ing to  the  end  of  the  Tfiovement  Strangwat  stops, 
and  looking  up  at  the  face  on  the  wall,  heaves  a 
long  sigh. 

Ivy.  [From  the  seat]  I  picked  these  for  yU,  Mr. 
Strangway. 

Strangwat.  [Turning  with  a  start]  Ah!  Ivy. 
Thank  you.  [He  puts  his  flute  dovm  on  a  chair  against 
ike  far  wall]  Where  are  the  others? 

As  he  speaks,  Gladts  Freman,  a  dark  gip- 
syish  girl,  and  Connie  Trustaford,  a  fair, 
stolid,  blue-eyed  Saxon,  both  about  sixteen, 
come  in  through  the  front  door,  behind  which 
they  have  evidently  been  listening.  They  too 
have  prayer-books  in  their  hands.  They 
sidle  past  Ivr,  and  also  sit  down  under  the 
window. 

Gladys.  Mercy's  comin',  Mr.  Strangway. 


ACT  I  A  BIT  O'  LOVE  S 

Strangwat.  Good  morning,  Gladys;    good  morn- 
ing, Connie. 

He  turns  to  a  hook-case  on  a  table  against  the 
far  wall,  and  taking  out  a  hook,  finds  his 
place  in  it.  While  he  stands  thus  toith  his 
back  to  the  girls,  Mercy  Jaeland  comes  in 
from  the  green.  She  also  is  abotU  sixteen, 
toith  fair  hair  and  china-blue  eyes.  She 
glides  in  quickly,  hiding  something  behind 
her,  and  sits  down  on  the  seat  next  the  door. 
And  at  once  there  is  a  whispering. 
Strangway.  [Turning  to  them]  Good  morning, 
Mercy.  ^ 

Mercy.  Good  morning,  Mr.  Strangway. 
Strangway.  Now,  yesterday  I  was  telling  you  what 
our  Lord's  coming  meant  to  the  world.  I  want  you 
to  understand  that  before  He  came  there  wasn't  really 
love,  as  we  know  it.  I  don't  mean  to  say  that  there 
weren't  many  good  people;  but  there  wasn't  love  for 
the  sake  of  loving.  D'you  think  you  imderstand  what 
I  mean? 

Mercy  fidgets.    Gladys's  eyes  are  following 
a  fly. 
Ivy.  Yes,  Mr.  Strangway. 

Strangway.  It  isn't  enough  to  love  people  because 
they're  good  to  you,  or  because  in  some  way  or  other 
you're  going  to  get  something  by  it.  We  have  to  love 
because  we  love  loving.  That's  the  great  thing — 
without  that  we're  nothing  but  Pagans. 
Gladys.  Please,  what  is  Pagans? 


4  A  BIT  O'  LOVE  act  i 

Strangwat.  That's  what  the  first  Christians  called 
the  people  who  lived  in  the  villages  and  were  not  yet 
Christians,  Gladys. 

Mercy.  We  live  in  a  village,  but  we're  Christians. 

Strangwat.  [With  a  smile]  Yes,  Mercy;  and  what 
is  a  Christian  ? 

Mercy  kicks  afoot  sideways  against  her  neigh- 
bour, frotcns  over  her  china-blue  eyes,  is 
silent;  then,  as  his  question  passes  on, 
makes  a  quick  little  face,  wriggles,  and  looks 
behind  her. 

Strangway.  Ivy? 

Ivy.  'Tis  a  man — whU — whU 

Strangway.  Yes? — Connie? 

Connie  [Who  speaks  rather  thickly,  as  if  she  had  a 
permanent  slight  cold]  Please,  Mr.  Strangway,  'tis  a 
man  whli  goes  to  church. 

Gladys.  He  'as  to  be  baptized — and  confirmed; 
and — and — buried. 

Ivy.  'Tis  a  man  whli — whU's  glide  and 

Gladys.  He  don't  drink,  an'  he  don't  beat  his 
horses,  an'  he  don't  hit  back. 

Mercy.  [Whispering]  'Tisn't  your  turn.  [To  Strang- 
way] 'Tis  a  man  like  us. 

Ivy.  I  know  what  Mrs.  Strangway  said  it  was, 
'cause  I  asked  her  once,  before  she  went  away. 

Strangway.  [Startled]  Yes? 

Ivy.  She  said  it  was  a  man  whli  forgave  every- 
thing. 


ACT  I  A  BIT  O'  LOVE  5 

Strangwat.  Ah! 

The  note  of  a  cuckoo  comes  travelling.  The 
girls  are  gazing  at  Stkangway,  who  seems 
to  have  gone  off  into  a  dream.  They  begin 
to  fidget  and  whisper. 

Connie.  Please,  Mr.  Strangway,  father  says  if  yii 
hit  a  man  and  he  don't  hit  yii  back,  he's  no  giide  at  all. 

Mercy.  When  Tommy  Morse  wouldn't  fight,  us 
pinched  him — he  did  squeal!  [She  giggles]  Made  me 
laugh ! 

Strangway.  Did  I  ever  tell  you  about  St.  Francis 
of  Assisi? 

Ivy.  [Clasping  her  hands]  No. 

Strangway.  Well,  he  was  the  best  Christian,  I 
think,  that  ever  lived — simply  full  of  love  and  joy. 

Ivy.  I  expect  he's  dead. 

Strangway.  About  seven  hundred  years.  Ivy. 

Ivy.  [Softly]  Oh! 

Strangway.  Everything  to  him  was  brother  or  sis- 
ter— the  sun  and  the  moon,  and  all  that  was  poor 
and  weak  and  sad,  and  animals  and  birds,  so  that 
they  even  used  to  follow  him  about. 

Mercy.  I  know !    He  had  crumbs  in  his  pocket. 

Strangway.  No;  he  had  love  in  his  eyes. 

Ivy.  'Tis  like  about  Orpheus,  that  yii  told  us. 

Strangway.  Ah !  But  St.  Francis  was  a  Christian, 
and  Orpheus  was  a  Pagan. 

Ivy.  Oh! 

Strangway.  Orpheus  drew  everything  after  him 
with  music;  St.  Francis  by  love. 


0  A  BIT  O'  LOVE  act  i 

IvT.  Perhaps  it  was  the  same,  really. 

Strangwat.  [Looking  at  his  flute]  Perhaps  it  was. 
Ivy. 

Gladys.  Did  *e  *ave  a  flute  like  yii  ? 

IvT.  The  flowers  smell  sweeter  when  they  'ear 
music;  they  dU. 

[She  holds  up  the  glass  of  flowers. 

Stranoway.  [Touching  one  of  the  orchis]  What's  the 
name  of  this  one? 

The  girls  cluster,  save  Mercy,  who  is  taking 
a  stealthy  interest  in  what  she  has  behind 
her. 

Connie.  We  call  it  a  cuckoo,  Mr.  Strangway. 

Gladys.  'Tis  awful  common  down  by  the  streams. 
We've  got  one  medder  where  'tis  so  thick  almost  as 
the  goldie  cups. 

Strangway.  Odd !    I've  never  noticed  it. 

Ivy.  Please,  Mr.  Strangway,  yii  don't  notice  when 
yli're  walkin';  jii  go  along  like  this. 

[She  holds  up  her  face  as  one  looking  at  the  sky. 

Strangway.  Bad  as  that,  Ivy? 

Ivy.  Mrs.  Strangway  often  used  to  pick  it  last 
spring. 

Strangway.  Did  she?    Did  she? 

[He  has  gone  off  again  into  a  kind  of  dream. 

Mercy.  I  like  being  confirmed. 

Strangway.  Ah!  Yes.  Now —  What's  that  be- 
hind you,  Mercy? 

Mercy.  [Engagingly  producing  a  cage  a  Utile  bigger 
than  a  mouse-trap,  containing  a  skylark]  My  skylr.rk. 


ACT  I  A  BIT  O'  LOVE  7 

Strangway.  What! 

Mercy.  It  can  fly;  but  we're  goin'  to  clip  its  wings. 
Bobbie  caught  it. 
Strangway.  How  long  ago? 

Mercy.  [Conscious   of  impending   disaster]  Yester- 
day. 
Strangway.  [White  hot]  Give  me  the  cage ! 
Mercy.  [Puckering]  I  want  my  skylark.  [As  he  steps 
up  to  her  and  takes  the  cage — thoroughly  alarmed]  I  gave 
Bobbie  thrippence  for  it ! 

Strangway.  [Producing  a  sixpence]  There ! 
Mercy.  [Throunng    it    down — passionately]  I    want 
my  skylark ! 

Strangway.  God  made  this  poor  bird  for  the  sky 
and  the  grass.  And  you  put  it  in  that!  Never  cage 
any  wild  thing !    Never ! 

Mercy.  [Faint  and  sullen]  I  want  my  skylark. 
Strangway.  [Taking    the    cage    to    the    door]  No ! 
[He  holds  up  the  cage  and  opens  it]  OflF  you  go,  poor 
thing ! 

[The  bird  flies  out  and  away. 
The   girls   watch   vnth   round   eyes   the  fling 
up  of  his  arm,  and  the  freed  bird  flying 
away. 
Ivy.  I'm  glad ! 

Mercy  kicks  her  viciously  and  sobs.  Strang- 
way comes  from  the  door,  looks  at  Mercy 
sobbing,  and  suddenly  clasps  his  head.  The 
girls  watch  him  with  a  queer  mixture  of 
wonder,  alarm,  and  disapproval. 


8  A  BIT  0'  LOVE  act  i 

Gladts.  [Whispering]  Don't  cry,  Mercy.    BobbieMl 
soon  catch  yli  another. 

Strangway  has  dropped  his  hands,  and  is  look- 
ing again  at  Mercy.  Ivy  sits  tcith  hands 
clasped,  gazing  at  Strangway.  Mercy 
continues  her  artificial  sobbing. 

Strangway.  [Quietly]  The  class  is  over  for  to-day. 

He  goes  up  to  Mercy,  and  holds  out  his  hand. 

She  does  not  take  it,  and  runs  out  knuckling 

her  eyes.    Strangway  turns  on  his  heel  and 

goes  into  the  house. 

Connie.  'T wasn't  his  bird. 

Ivy.  Skylarks  belong  to  the  sky.    Mr.  Strangway 
said  so. 

Gladys.  Not  when  they'm  caught,  they  don't. 

Ivy.  They  dU. 

Connie.  'Twas  her  bird. 

Ivy.  He  gave  her  sixp)ence  for  it. 

Gladys.  She  didn't  take  it. 

Connie.  There  it  is  on  the  ground. 

Ivy.  She  might  have. 

Gladys.  He'll  p'raps  take  my  squirrel,  tU. 

Ivy.  The  bird  sang — I  'card  it!    Right  up  in  the 
sky.    It  wouldn't  have  sanged  if  it  weren't  glad. 

Gladys.  Well,  Mercy  cried. 

Ivy.  I  don't  care. 

Gladys.  'Tis  a  shame!    And  I  know  something. 
Mrs.  Strangway's  at  Durford. 

Connie.  She's — never! 

Gladys.  I  saw  her  yesterday.    An'  if  she's  there 


ACT  I  A  BIT  O'  LOVE  9 

she  ought  to  be  here.  I  told  mother,  an'  she  said: 
"Yii  mind  yer  business."  An'  when  she  goes  in  to 
market  to-morrow  she'm  goin'  to  see.  An'  if  she's 
really  there,  mother  says,  'tis  a  fine  tU-dii  an'  a  praaper 
scandal.    So  /  know  a  lot  more'n  yii  dii. 

[IvT  stares  at  her. 

Connie.  Mrs.  Strangway  told  mother  she  was  goin* 
to  France  for  the  winter  because  her  mother  was  ill. 

Gladys.  'Tisn't  winter  now — Ascension  Day.  I 
saw  her  comin'  out  o'  Dr.  Desart's  house.  I  know 
'twas  her  because  she  had  on  a  blue  dress  an'  a  proud 
llike.  Mother  says  the  doctor  come  over  here  tU 
often  before  Mrs.  Strangway  went  away,  just  afore 
Christmas.  They  was  old  sweethearts  before  she 
married  Mr.  Strangway.  [To  Ivy]  'Twas  ylire  mother 
told  mother  that. 

[Ivy  gazes  at  tJma,  more  and  more  wide-eyed. 

Connie.  Father  says  if  Mrs.  Bradmere  an'  the  old 
Rector  knew  about  the  doctor,  they  wouldn't  'ave 
Mr.  Strangway  'ere  for  curate  any  longer;  because 
mother  says  it  takes  more'n  a  year  for  a  glide  wife 
to  leave  her  'usband,  an'  'e  so  fond  of  her.  But 
'tisn't  no  business  of  ours,  father  says. 

Gladys.  Mother  says  so  tii.  She's  praaper  set 
against  gossip.  She'll  know  all  about  it  to-morrow 
after  market. 

Ivy.  [Stamping  her  foot]  I  don't  want  to  'ear  nothin* 
at  all;  I  don't,  an'  I  won't. 

[A  rather  shame-faced  silence  falls  on  the  girls. 


10  A  BIT  O'  LOVE  act  i 

Gladys.  [In  a  quick  wkiaper]  'Ere's  Mrs.  Burla- 
combe. 

There  enters  from  the  house  a  stout  motherly 
woman  with  a  round  grey  eye  and  very  red 
cheeks. 

Mrs.  Burlacombe.  Ivy,  take  Mr.  Strangway  his 
ink,  or  we'll  never  *ave  no  sermon  to-night.  He'm  in 
his  thinkin'  box,  but  'tis  not  a  bit  o'  yUse  'im  thinkin* 
without  'is  ink.  [She  hands  her  daughter  an  inkpot  and 
blotting-pad.  Ivy  Takes  them  and  goes  out]  What- 
ever's  this?  [She  picks  up  the  little  bird-cage. 

Gladys.  'Tis  Mercy  Jarland's.  Mr.  Strangway  let 
her  skylark  go. 

Mrs.  Burlacombe.  Aw!  Did  'e  now?  Serve  'er 
right,  bringin*  an  'eathen  bird  to  confirmation  class. 

Connie.  I'll  take  it  to  her. 

Mrs.  Burlacombe.  No.  Yii  leave  it  there,  an'  let 
Mr.  Strangway  dii  what  'e  likes  with  it.  Bringin'  a 
bird  like  that !    Well  I  never ! 

The  girls,  perceiving  that  they  have  lighted  on 
stony  soil,  look  at  each  other  and  slide  towards 
the  door. 

Mrs.  Burlacombe.  Yes,  yli  just  be  off,  an'  think 
on  what  yii've  been  told  in  class,  an'  be'ave  like  Chris- 
tians, that's  glide  maids.  An'  don't  jii  come  no  more 
in  the  /avenin's  dancin'  them  'eathen  dances  in  my 
barn,  naighther,  till  after  yli'm  confirmed — 'tisn't  right. 
I've  told  Ivy  I  won't  'ave  it. 

Connie.  Mr.  Strangway  don't  mind — he  likes  us 


ACT  I  A  BIT  O'  LOVE  11 

to;    'twas  Mrs.  Strangway  began  teachin'  us.    He's 
goin'  to  give  a  prize. 

Mrs.  BmiLACOMBE.  YU  just  dii  what  I  tell  yii  an' 
never  mind  Mr.  Strangway — he'm  tii  kind  to  every- 
one. D'yU  think  I  don't  know  how  gells  oughter 
be'ave  before  confirmation  ?  YU  be'ave  like  I  did ! 
Now,  goo  ahn !    Shoo ! 

She  hustles  them  out,  rather  as  she  might  hustle 
her  chickens,  and  begins  tidying  the  room. 
There  comes  a  wandering  figure  to  the  open 
vnndow.    It  is  that  of  a  man  of  about  thirty- 
five,  of  feeble  gait,  leaning  the  weight  of  all 
one  side  of  him  on  a  stick.    His  dark  face, 
with  black  hair,  one  lock  of  which  has  gone 
white,  was  evidently  once  that  of  an  ardent 
man.    Now  it  is  slack,  weakly  smiling,  and 
the  brown  eyes  are  lost,  and  seem  always  to 
be  asking  something  to  which  there  is  no 
answer. 
Mrs.   Burlacombe.  [With   that  forced   cheerftdness 
always  assumed  in  the  face   of  too  great   misfortune] 
Well,   Jim!   better?  [At   the  faint   brightening   of  the 
smile]  That's  right !    Yii'm  gettin'  on  bravely.    Want 
Parson  ? 

Jim.  [Nodding  and  smiling,  and  speaking  slowly]  I 
want  to  tell  'un  about  my  cat. 

[His  face  loses  its  smile. 
Mrs.  Burlacombe.  Wliy !  what's  she  been  diiin' 
then  ?     Mr.  Strangway's  busy.     Won't  I  dii  ? 
Jim.  [Shaking  his  head]  No.     I  want  to  tell  him. 


12  A  BIT  O'  LOVE  act  i 

Mrs.  BuRiiACOMBE.  Whatever  ahe  been  dUin'? 
Havin'  kittens? 

Jim.  No.    She'm  lost. 

Mrs.  Burlacombe.  Dearie  me!  Aw!  she'm  not 
lost.    Cats  be  like  maids;    they  must  get  out  a  bit. 

Jim.  She'm  lost.    Maybe  he'll  know  where  she'll  be. 

Mrs.  Burlacombe.  Well,  well.    I'll  go  an'  find  'im. 

Jim.  He's  a  glide  man.    He's  very  glide. 

Mrs.  Burlacombe.  That's  certain  zure. 

Strangway.  [Entering  from  the  house]  Mrs.  Burla- 
combe, I  can't  think  where  I've  put  my  book  on  St. 
Francis — the  large,  squarish  pale-blue  one  ? 

Mrs,  Burlacombe.  Aw!  there  now!  I  knli  there 
was  somethin'  on  me  mind.  Miss  Willis  she  came  in 
yesterday  aftemline  when  yli  was  out,  to  borrow  it. 
Oh!  yes — I  said — I'm  zure  Mr.  Strangway'll  lend 
it  'ee.    Now  think  o'  that ! 

Strangway.  Of  course,  Mrs.  Burlacombe;  very 
glad  she's  got  it. 

Mrs.  Burlacombe.  Aw  !  but  that's  not  all.  When 
I  tuk  it  up  there  come  out  a  whole  flutter  o'  little 
bits  o'  paper  wi'  little  rhymes  on  'em,  same  as  I  see 
yli  writin'.  Aw !  my  glideness !  I  says  to  meself, 
Mr.  Strangway  widn'  want  no  one  seein'  them. 

Strangway.  Dear  me !    No;  certainly  not ! 

Mrs.  Burlacombe.  An*  so  I  putt  'em  in  your 
secretary. 

Strangway.  My — ah!    Yes.    Thank  you;   yes. 

Mrs.  Burlacombe.  But  I'll  goo  over  an'  get  the 
blike  for  yU.     'T  won't  take  me  'alf  a  miuit. 


ACT  I  A  BIT  O'  LOVE  13 

She  goes  out  on  to  the  green.  Jim  Bere  has 
come  in. 

Strangwat.  [Gently]  Well,  Jim? 

Jim.  My  cat's  lost. 

Strangwat.  Lost? 

Jim.  Day  before  yesterday.  She'm  not  come  back. 
They've  shot  'er,  I  think;  or  she'm  caught  in  one  o' 
they  rabbit-traps. 

Strangwat.  Oh!  no;  my  dear  fellow,  she'll  come 
back.    I'll  speak  to  Sir  Herbert's  keepers. 

Jim.  Yes,  zurr.    I  feel  lonesome  without  'er. 

Strangwat.  [With  a  faint  smile — mxyre  to  himself 
than  to  Jim]  Lonesome!  Yes!  That's  bad,  Jim! 
That's  bad ! 

Jim.  I  miss  'er  when  I  sits  thar  in  the  avenin*. 

Strangwat.  The  evenings —  They're  the  worst — 
and  when  the  blackbirds  sing  in  the  morning. 

Jim.  She  used  to  lie  on  my  bed,  ye  know,  zurr. 
[Strangwat  turns  his  face  away,  contracted  vnth 
pain]  She'm  like  a  Christian. 

Strangwat.  The  beasts  are. 

Jim.  There's  plenty  folk  ain't  'alf  as  Christian  as 
'er  be. 

Strangwat.  Well,  dear  Jim,  I'll  do  my  very  best. 
And  any  time  you're  lonely,  come  up,  and  I'll  play 
the  flute  to  you. 

Jim.  [Wriggling  slightly]  No,  zurr.    Thank  *ee,  zurr. 

Strangwat.  What — don't  you  like  music? 

Jim.  Ye-es,  zurr.  [A  figure  passes  the  window. 
Seeing  it  he  says  vnth  his  slow  smile:    "'Ere's  Mrs. 


14  A  BIT  O'  LOVE  act  i 

Bradmere,   comin'   from   the   Rectxjry."     With   queer 
malice]  She  don't  like  cats.    But  she'm  a  cat  'erself, 
I  think. 
Strangwat.  [With  his  smile]  Jim ! 
Jim.  She'm  always  tellin'  me  I'm  lUkin'  better.    I'm 
not  better,  zurr. 
Strangwat.  That's  her  kindness. 
Jim.  I  don't  think  it  is.     'Tis  laziness,  an'  'avin* 
'er  own  way.    She'm  very  fond  of  'er  own  way. 

A  knock  on  the  door  cuts  off  his  speech.    Fol- 
lowing closely  on  the  knock,  as  though  no 
doors  were  licensed  to  be  closed  against  her, 
a  grey-haired  lady  enters;  a  capable,  brovm- 
faced  woman  of  seventy,  whose  every  tone  and 
movement   exhales   authority.     With   a   nod 
and  a  "good  morning"  to  Strangwat  she 
turns  at  once  to  Jim  Bere. 
Mrs.  Bradmere.  Ah!  Jim;    you're  looking  better. 
[Jim  Bere  shakes  his  head. 
Mrs.  Bradmere.  Oh!  yes,  you  are.    Getting  on 
splendidly.    And  now,  I  just  want  to  speak  to  Mr. 
Strangway. 

Jim  Bere  touches  his  forelock,  and  slowly, 
leaning  on  his  stick,  goes  out. 
Mrs.  Bradmere.  [Waiting  for  the  door  to  close]  You 
know  how  that  came  on  him?     Caught  the  girl  he 
was  engaged  to,  one  night,  with  another  man,  the 
rage  broke  something  here.  [She  touches  her  forehead] 
Four  years  ago. 
Strangwat.  Poor  fellow ! 


ACT  I  A  BIT  O'  LOVE  15 

Mrs.  Bradmere.  [Looking  at  him  aharply]  Is  yoiir 
wife  back? 

Strangwat.  [Starting]  No. 

Mrs.  Bradmere.  By  the  way,  poor  Mrs.  Cremer — 
is  she  any  better? 

Strangway.  No;  going  fast.  Wonderful — so  patient. 

Mrs.  Bradmere.  [With  gruff  sympathy]  Urn !  Yes. 
They  know  how  to  die!  [With  another  sharp  look  at 
him]  D'you  expect  your  wife  soon  ? 

Strangway.  I — I — hope  so. 

Mrs.  Bradmere.  So  do  I.    The  sooner  the  better. 

Strangway.  [Shrinking]  I  trust  the  Rector's  not 
suffering  so  much  this  morning  ? 

Mrs.  Bradmere.  Thank  you !  His  foot's  very  bad. 
As  she  speaks  Mrs.  Burlacombe  returns  vnth 
a  large  pale-blue  hook  in  her  hand. 

Mrs.  Burlacombe.  Good  day,  M'm!  [Taking  the 
hook  across  to  Strangway]  Miss  Willis,  she  says  she'm 
very  sorry,  ziur. 

Strangway.  She  was  very  welcome,  Mrs.  Bur- 
lacombe. [To  Mrs.  Bradmere]  Forgive  me — my 
sermon.  [He  goes  into  the  house. 

The  two  women  gaze  after  him.  Then,  at  once, 
as  it  were,  draw  into  themselves,  as  if  pre- 
paring for  an  encounter,  and  yet  seem  to 
expand  as  if  losing  the  need  for  restraint. 

Mrs.  Bradmere.  [Abruptly]  He  misses  his  wife  very 
much,  I'm  afraid. 

Mrs.  Burlacombe.  Ah!  Don't  he?  Poor  dear 
man;   he  keeps  a  terrible  tight  'and  over  'imself,  but 


la  A  BIT  O'  LOVE  ACT  i 

'tis  suthin'  cruel  the  way  he  walks  about  at  night. 
He'm  just  like  a  cow  when  its  calf's  weaned.  *T'aa 
gone  to  me  'eart  truly  to  see  'im  these  months  past. 
T'other  day  when  I  went  up  to  dll  his  rlime,  I  yeard 
a  noise  like  this  [she  sniffa];  an*  ther'  'e  was  at  the 
wardrobe,  snuflSn'  at  'er  things.  I  did  never  think  a 
man  cud  care  for  a  woman  so  much  as  that. 

Mrs.  Bradmere.  H'm ! 

Mrs.  Bitrlacombe.  'Tis  funny  rest — an'  'e  comin' 
'ere  for  quiet  after  that  tearin'  great  London  parish ! 
'E'm  terrible  absent-minded  tU — don't  take  no  inter- 
est in  'is  fUde.  Yesterday,  goin*  on  for  one  o'clock, 
'e  says  to  me,  "I  expect  'tis  nearly  breakfast- time, 
Mrs.  Burlacombe!"     *E'd  'ad  it  twice  already! 

Mrs.  Bradmere.  Twice !    Nonsense ! 

Mrs.  Burlacombe.  Zurely!  I  give  'im  a  nummit 
afore  'e  gets  up;  an'  'e  'as  'is  brekjus  reg'lar  at  nine. 
Must  feed  un  up.  He'm  on  'is  feet  all  day,  goin*  to 
zee  folk  that  widden  want  to  zee  an  angel,  they'm 
that  busy;  an'  when  'e  comes  in  'e'U  play  'is  flUte 
there.  He'm  wastin'  away  for  want  of  'b  wife.  That's 
what  'tis.  An'  'im  so  sweet-spoken,  tU,  'tes  a  pleasure 
to  year  'im —    Never  says  a  word ! 

Mrs.  Bradmere.  Yes,  that's  the  kind  of  man  who 
gets  treated  badly.  I'm  afraid  she's  not  worthy  of 
him,  Mrs.  Burlacombe. 

Mrs.  Burlacombe.  [Plaiting  her  apron]  'Tesn't  for 
me  to  zay  that.    She'm  a  very  pleasant  lady. 

Mrs.  Bradmere.  Too  pleasant.  What's  this  story 
about  her  being  seen  in  Durford  ? 


ACT  I  A  BIT  O'  LOVE  17 

Mrs.  BuRiiACOMBB.  Aw!  I  dii  never  year  no 
gossip,  m'm. 

Mrs.  Bradmere.  [Drily]  Of  course  not!  But  you 
see  the  Rector  wishes  to  know. 

Mrs.  BuRiiACOMBE.  [Flustered]  Well — folk  will  talk ! 
But,  as  I  says  to  Burlacombe — "'Tes  paltry,"  I  says; 
and  they  only  married  eighteen  months,  and  Mr. 
Strangway  so  devoted-like.  'Tes  nothing  but  love, 
with  'im. 

Mrs.  Bradmere.  Come! 

Mrs.  Burlacombe.  There's  puzzivantin'  folk  as'U 
set  an'  gossip  the  feathers  off  an  angel.  But  I  dU 
never  listen. 

Mrs.  Bradmere.  Now  then,  Mrs.  Burlacombe.'* 

Mrs.  Burlacombe.  Well,  they  dii  say  as  how  Dr. 
Desart  over  to  Durford  and  Mrs.  Strangway  was 
sweethearts  afore  she  wer'  married. 

Mrs.  Bradmere.  I  knew  that.  Who  was  it  saw 
her  coming  out  of  Dr.  Desart's  house  yesterday? 

Mrs.  Burlacombe.  In  a  manner  of  spakin'  'tes 
Mrs.  Freman  that  says  'er  Gladys  seen  her. 

Mrs.  Bradmere.  That  child's  got  an  eye  like  a 
hawk. 

Mrs.  Burlacombe.  'Tes  wonderful  how  things  dU 
spread.  'Tesn't  as  if  us  gossiped.  DU  seem  to  grow- 
like  in  the  naight. 

Mrs.  Bradmere.  [To  herself]  I  never  liked  her. 
That  Riviera  excuse,  Mrs.  Burlacombe —  Very  con- 
venient things,  sick  mothers.  Mr.  Strangway  doesn't 
know? 


18  A  BIT  O'  LOVE  act  i 

Mrs.  Burlacombe.  The  Lord  forbid !  'Twid  send 
un  crazy,  I  think.  For  all  he'm  so  moony  an'  gentle- 
like, I  think  he'm  a  terrible  passionate  man  inside. 
He've  a-got  a  saint  in  'im,  for  zure;  but  'tea  only 
'alf-baked,  in  a  manner  of  spakin'. 

Mbs.  Bradmere.  I  shall  go  and  see  Mrs.  Fre- 
man.  There's  been  too  much  of  this  gossip  all  the 
winter. 

Mrs.  Burlacombe.  'Tes  unfortunate-like  'tes  the 
Fremans.  Freman  he'm  a  gipsy  sort  of  a  feller;  and 
he've  never  forgiven  Mr.  Strangway  for  spakin'  to 
'im  about  the  way  he  trates  'is  'orses. 

Mrs.  Bradmere.  Ah !  I'm  afraid  Mr.  Strangway's 
not  too  discreet  when  his  feelings  are  touched. 

Mrs.  Bxjrlacombe.  'E've  a-got  an  'eart  so  big  as 
the  full  miine.  But  'tes  no  yiise  expectin'  tii  much 
o'  this  world.     'Tes  a  funny  place,  after  that. 

Mrs.  Bradmere.  Yes,  Mrs.  Burlacombe;  and  I 
shall  give  some  of  these  good  people  a  rare  rap  over 
the  knuckles  for  their  want  of  charity.  For  all  they 
look  as  if  butter  wouldn't  melt  in  their  mouths, 
they're  an  un-Christian  lot.  [Looking  very  directly  at 
Mrs.  Burlacombe]  It's  lucky  we've  some  hold  over 
the  village.  I'm  not  going  to  have  scandal.  I  shall 
sf)eak  to  Sir  Herbert,  and  he  and  the  Rector  will 
take  steps. 

Mrs.  Burlacombe.  [With  covert  malice]  Aw !  I  dli 
hope  'twon't  upset  the  Rector,  an'  'tis  filte  so  pop- 
tious! 

Mbs.  Bradmere.  [Grimly]  His     foot'll     be     sound 


ACT  I  A  BIT  O'  LOVE  19 

enough  to  come  down  sharp.    By  the  way,  will  you 
send  me  a  duck  up  to  the  Rectory? 

Mrs.  Burlacombe.  [Glad  to  get  away]  Zurely,  m'm; 
at  once.    I've  some  luv'ly  fat  birds. 

[She  goes  into  the  house. 
Mrs.  Bradmere.  Old  puss-cat ! 

She  turns  to  go,  and  in  the  doorway  encounters 
a  very  little,  red-cheeked  girl  in  a  peacock- 
blue    cap,    and    pink  frock,    who    curtsies 
stolidly. 
Mrs.  Bradmere.  Well,  Tibby  Jarland,  what  do  you 
want  here?     Always  sucking  something,  aren't  you? 
Getting  no  reply  from  Tibby  Jarland,  she 
passes  out.    Tibby  conies  in,  looks  round, 
takes  a  large  sweet  out  of  her  mouth,  con- 
templates it,  and  puts  it  hack  again.     Then, 
in  a  perfunctory  and  very  stolid  fashion,  she 
looks  about  the  floor,  as  if  she  had  been  told 
to  find  something.     While  she  is  finding  noth- 
ing and  sucking  her  sweet,  her  sister  Mercy 
comes  in  furtively,  still  frowning  and  vin- 
dictive. 
Mercy.  What!    Haven't    you    found    it,    Tibby? 
Get  along  with  'ee,  then ! 

She  accelerates  the  stolid  Tibby's  departure  with 
a  smack,  searches  under  the  seat,  finds  and 
picJcs  up  the  deserted  sixpence.  Then  very 
quickly  she  goes  to  the  door.  But  it  is 
opened  before  she  reaches  it,  and,  finding 
herself  caught,  she  slips  behind  the  chintz 


20  A  BIT  O'  LOVE  act  i 

window-curtain.  A  woman  has  entered, 
who  is  clearly  the  original  of  the  large  pho- 
tograph. She  is  not  strictly  pretty,  hut 
there  is  charm  in  her  pale,  resolute  face, 
with  its  mocking  lips,  flexible  brows,  and 
greenish  eyes,  whose  lids,  square  above  them, 
have  short,  dark  lashes.  She  is  dressed  in 
blu£,  and  her  fair  hair  is  coiled  up  under 
a  cap  and  motor-veil.  She  comes  in  swiftly, 
and  closes  the  door  behind  her;  becomes  ir- 
resolute; then,  suddenly  deciding,  moves  to- 
wards the  door  into  the  house.  Mercy 
slips  from  behind  her  curtain  to  make  off, 
hut  at  that  moment  the  door  into  the  house 
is  opened,  and  she  has  at  once  to  slip  back 
again  into  covert.  It  is  Ivy  who  has  ap- 
peared. 

Ivy.  [Amazed]  Oh !    Mrs.  Strangway ! 

Evidently  disconcerted  by  this  appearance, 
Beatrice  Strangway  pulls  herself  together 
and  confronts  the  child  with  a  smile. 

Beatrice.  Well,  Ivy — you've  grown!  You  didn't 
expect  me,  did  you  ? 

Ivy.  No,  Mrs.  Strangway;  but  I  hoped  yU'd  be 
comin'  soon. 

Beatrice.  Ah !    Yes.    Is  Mr.  Strangway  in  ? 

Ivy.  [Hypnotized  by  those  faintly  smiling  lips]  Yes 
— oh,  yes !  He's  writin'  his  sermon  in  the  little  room. 
He  uxiU  be  glad ! 

Beatrice.  [Going  a  little  closer,  and  never  taking 


ACT  I  A  BIT  O'  LOVE  21 

her  eyes  off  the  child]  Yes.  Now,  Ivy,  will  you  do 
something  for  me  ? 

IvT.  [FlvMering]  Oh,  yes,  Mrs.  Strangway. 

BKA.TRICE.  Quite  sure? 

Ivy.  Oh,  yes ! 

Beatrice.  Are  you  old  enough  to  keep  a  secret? 

Ivy.  [Nodding]  I'm  fourteen  now. 

Beatrice.  Well,  then — I  don't  want  anybody  but 
Mr.  Strangway  to  know  I've  been  here;  nobody,  not 
even  your  mother.    D'you  understand  ? 

Ivy.  [Troubled]  No.    Only,  I  can  keep  a  secret. 

Beatrice.  Mind,  if  anybody  hears,  it  will  hurt — 
Mr.  Strangway. 

Ivy.  Oh !  I  wouldn't — hurt — him.  Must  yii  go 
away  again?  [Trembling  towards  her]  I  wish  yii  were 
goin*  to  stay.  And  perhaps  some  one  has  seen  yii — 
They 

Beatrice.  [Hastily]  No,  no  one.  I  came  motoring; 
like  this.  [She  moves  her  veil  to  show  how  it  can  conceal 
her  face]  And  I  came  straight  down  the  little  lane, 
and  through  the  barn,  across  the  yard. 

Ivy.  [Timidly]  People  dii  see  a  lot. 

Beatrice.  [Still  with  that  hovering  smile]  I  know, 
but —    Now  go  and  tell  him  quickly  and  quietly. 

Ivy.  [Stopping  at  the  door]  Mother's  pluckin'  a  duck. 
Only,  please,  Mrs.  Strangway,  if  she  comes  in  even 
after  yii've  gone,  she'll  know,  because — because  yii 
always  have  that  particular  nice  scent. 

Beatrice.  Thank  you,  my  child.  I'll  see  to  that. 
Ivy  looks  at  her  05  if  she  would  speak  again. 


28  A  BIT  O'  LOVE  act  i 

then  turns  suddenly,  and  goes  out.    Bea- 
trice's face   darkens;    she   shivers.     Tak- 
ing out  a  little  cigarette  case,  she  lights  a 
cigarette,   and  toatches  the  jniffs  of  smoke 
wreathe    about    her    and    die    away.     The 
frightened  Mercy  peers  oul,  spying  for  a 
chance    to    escape.     Then  from    the    house 
Strangway  comes  in.    All  his  dreaminess 
is  gone. 
Strangway.  Thank  God!  [He  stops  at  the  look  on 
her  face]  I  don't  understand,  though.    I  thought  you 
were  still  out  there. 

Beatrice.  [Letting  her  cigarette  fall,  and  putting  her 
foot  on  it]  No. 

Strangway.  You're  staying  ?  Oh !  Beatrice;  come ! 
We'll  get  away  from  here  at  once — as  far,  as  far — 
anywhere  you  like.    Oh !  my  darling — only  come  !    If 

you  knew 

Beatrice.  It's  no  good,  Michael;    I've  tried  and 
tried. 
Strangway.  Not!    Then, why — ?    Beatrice!    You 

said,  when  you  were  right  away — I've  waited 

Beatrice.  I  know.  It's  cruel — it's  horrible.  But 
I  told  you  not  to  hope,  Michael.  I've  done  my  best. 
All  these  months  at  Mentone,  I've  been  wondering 
why  I  ever  let  you  marry  me — when  that  feeling 
wasn't  dead ! 

Strangway.  You  can't  have  come  back  just  to 
leave  me  again  ? 

Beatrice.  When   you   let   me   go  out  there  with 


ACT  I  A  BIT  O'  LOVE  23 

mother  I  thought — I  did  think  I  would  be  able;   and 
I  had  begun — and  then — spring  came ! 

Strangway.  Spring  came  here  too!  Never  so — 
aching !    Beatrice,  can't  you  ? 

Beatrice.  I've  something  to  say. 

Strangway.  No!    No!    No! 

Beatrice.  You  see — I've — fallen. 

Strangway.  Ah!  [In  a  voice  sharpened  by  pain] 
Why,  in  the  name  of  mercy,  come  here  to  tell  me 
that  ?    Was  he  out  there,  then  ? 

[She  shakes  her  head. 

Beatrice.  I  came  straight  back  to  him. 

Strangway.  To  Durford? 

Beatrice.  To  the  Crossway  Hotel,  miles  out — in 
my  own  name.  They  don't  know  me  there.  I  told 
you  not  to  hope,  Michael.  I've  done  my  best;  I 
swear  it. 

Strangway.  My  God ! 

Beatrice.  It  was  your  God  that  brought  us  to  live 
near  him  I 

Strangway.  Why  have  you  come  to  me  like  this? 

Beatrice.  To  know  what  you're  going  to  do.  Are 
you  going  to  divorce  me?  We're  in  your  power. 
Don't  divorce  me —  Doctor  and  patient — you  must 
know — it  ruins  him.  He'll  lose  everything.  He'd 
be  disqualified,  and  he  hasn't  a  penny  without  his 
work. 

Strangway.  Why  should  I  spare  him  ? 

Beatrice.  Michael,  I  came  to  beg.    It's  hard. 

Strangway.  No;  don't  beg !    I  can't  stand  it. 


24  A  BIT  O'  LOVE  act  i 

Beatrice.  [Recovering  her  pride]  What  are  you 
going  to  do," then?  Keep  us  apart  by  the  threat  of 
a  divorce?  Starve  us  and  prison  us?  Cage  me  up 
here  with  you?    I'm  not  brute  enough  to  ruin  him. 

Strangway.  Heaven! 

Beatrice.  I  never  really  stopped  loving  him.  I 
never  loved  you,  Michael. 

Strangway.  [Stunned]  Is  that  true?  [Beatrice 
bends  her  head]  Never  loved  me?  Not — that  night 
— on  the  river — not ? 

Beatrice.  [Under  her  breath]  No. 

Strangvs^ay.  Were  you  lying  to  me,  then?  Kissing 
me,  and — hating  me? 

Beatrice.  One  doesn't  hate  men  like  you;  but  it 
wasn't  love. 

Strangway.  Why  did  you  tell  me  it  was? 

Beatrice.  Yes.  That  was  the  worst  thing  I've 
ever  done. 

Strangway.  Do  you  think  I  would  have  married 
you?  I  would  have  burned  first!  I  never  dreamed 
you  didn't.     I  swear  it ! 

Beatrice.  [Very  low]  Forget  it ! 

Strangway.  Did  he  try  to  get  you  away  from  me  ? 
[Beatrice  gives  him  a  swift  look]  Tell  me  the  truth ! 

Beatrice.  No.  It  was — I — alone.  But — he  loves 
me. 

Strangway.  One  does  not  easily  know  love,  it 
seems. 

Bvt  her  smile,  faint,  mysterious,  pitying,  is 
enough,  and  he  turns  away  from  her. 


ACT  I  A  BIT  O'  LOVE  25 

Beatrice.  It  was  cruel  to  come,  I  know.  For  me, 
too.    Bilt  I  couldn't  write.    I  had  to  know. 

Strangway.  Never  loved  me?  Never  loved  me? 
That  night  at  Tregaron?  [At  the  look  on  her  face] 
You  might  have  told  me  before  you  went  away! 
Why  keep  me  all  these 

Beatrice.  I  meant  to  forget  him  again.  I  did 
mean  to.  I  thought  I  could  get  back  to  what  I  was, 
when  I  married  you;  but,  you  see,  what  a  girl  can 
do,  a  woman  that's  been  married — can't. 

Strangwat.  Then  it  was  I — my  kisses  that — ! 
[He  laughs]  How  did  you  stand  them?  [His  eyes  dart 
at  her  face]  Imagination  helped  you,  i)erhaps  ! 

Beatrice.  Michael,  don't,  don't!  And — oh!  don't 
make  a  public  thing  of  it!  You  needn't  be  afraid  I 
shall  have  too  good  a  time !  [He  stays  quite  still  and 
silent,  and  that  which  is  writhing  in  him  makes  his  face 
so  strange  that  Beatrice  stands  aghast.  At  last  she 
goes  stumbling  on  in  speech]  If  ever  you  want  to  marry 
some  one  else — then,  of  course — that's  only  fair,  ruin 
or  not.  But  till  then — till  then —  He's  leaving  Dur- 
ford,  going  to  Brighton.  No  one  need  know.  And 
you — this  isn't  the  only  parish  in  the  world. 

Strangway.  [Quietly]  You  ask  me  to  help  you  live 
in  secret  with  another  man  ? 

Beatrice.  I  ask  for  mercy. 

Strangway.  [As  to  himself]  What  am  I  to  do  ? 

Beatrice.  What  you"  feel  in  the  bottom  of  your 
heart. 

Strangway.  You  ask  me  to  help  you  live  in  sin  ? 


26  A  BIT  O'  LOVE  act  i 

Beatrice.  To  let  me  go  out  of  your  life.    You've 
only  to  do — nothing.  [He  goes,  slowly,  close  to  her. 

Stranqway.  I    want    you.    Come    back    to    me! 
Beatrice,  come  back ! 
Beatrice.  It  would  be  torture,  now. 
Strangwat.  [Writhing]  Oh! 
Beatrice.  Whatever's  in  your  heart — do ! 
Strangwat.  You'd  come  back  to  me  sooner  than 
ruin  him  ?    Would  you  ? 
Beatrice.  I  can't  bring  him  harm. 
Strangwat.  [Turning  away]  God ! — if  there  be  one 
— help  me !  [He  stands  leaning  his  forehead  against  the 
window.    Suddenly  his  glance  falls  on  the  little  bird- 
cage, still  lying  on  the  toindow-seat]  Never  cage  any 
wild  thing !  [He  gives  a  laugh  that  is  half  a  sob;   then, 
turning  to  the  door,  says  in  a  low  voice]  Go !    Go  please, 
quickly !    Do  what  you  will.    I  won't  hurt  you — can't 
—  But — go !  [He  opens  the  door. 

Beatrice.  [Greatly  moved]  Thank  you ! 

She  passes  him  with  her  head  down,  and  goes 
out  quickly.  Strangwat  stands  uncon- 
sciously tearing  at  the  little  bird-cage.  And 
while  he  tears  at  it  he  utters  a  moaning 
sound.  The  terrified  Merct,  peering  from 
behind  the  curtain,  and  watching  her 
chance,  slips  to  the  still  open  door;  but 
in  her  haste  and  fright  she  knocks  against 
it,  and  Strangwat  sees  her.  Before  he  can 
stop'her  she  has  fled  out  on  to  the  green 
and  away. 


ACT  I  A  BIT  O'  LOVE  27 

While  he  stands  there,  paralysed,  the  door  from 

the  house  is  opened,  and  Mrs.  Burlacombe 

approaches  him  in  a  queer,  hushed  way. 

Mrs.  Burlacombe.  [Her  eyes  mechanically  fixed  on 

the  twisted  bird-cage  in  his  hands]  'Tis  poor  Sue  Cremer, 

zurr,  I  didn't  'ardly  think  she'd  last  thrii  the  mornin'. 

An'  zure  enough  she'm  passed  away !  [Seeing  that  he 

has    not   taken  in  her  words]  Mr.  Strangway — yii'm 

feelin'  giddy? 

Strangway.      No,    no!      What    was    it?      You 

said 

Mrs.  Burlacombe.  'Tes  Jack  Cremer.    His  wife's 
gone.     'E'm  in  a  terrible  way.     'Tes  only  yii,  'e  ses, 
can  dii  'im  any  glide.    He'm  in  the  kitchen. 
Strangway.  Cremer?      Yes!      Of    course.      Let 

him 

Mrs.  Burlacombe.  [Still  staring  at  the  twisted  cage] 
Yii  ain't  wantin'  that — 'tes  all  twizzled.  [She  takes  it 
from  him]  Sure  yii'm  not  feelin'  yer  'ead  ? 
Strangway.  [With  a  resolute  effort]  No ! 
Mrs.  Burlacombe.  [Doubtfully]  I'll    send    'im    in, 
then.  [She  goes. 

When  she  is  gone,  Strangway  passes  his 
handkerchief  across  his  forehead,  and  his 
lips  move  fast.  He  is  standing  motionless 
when  Cremer,  a  big  man  in  labourer's 
clothes,  with  a  thick,  broad  face,  and  tragic, 
faithful  eyes,  comes  in,  and  stands  a  little 
in  from  the  closed  door,  quite  dumb. 
Strangway.  [After  a  moment's  silence — going  up  to 


28  A  BIT  O'  LOVE  act  i 

him  and  laying  a  hand  on  his  shoulder]  Jack !    Don't 
give  way.    If  we  give  way — we're  done. 

Cremer.  Yes,  zurr.    [A  quiver  passes  over  his  face. 

Strangwat.  She  didn't.  Your  wife  was  a  brave 
woman.    A  dear  woman. 

Crisier.  I  never  thought  to  liise  'er.  She  never 
told  me  'ow  bad  she  was,  afore  she  tuk  to  *er  bed. 
'Tis  a  dreadful  thing  to  lUse  a  wife,  zurr. 

Strangwat.  [Tightening  his  lips,  that  tremble]  Yes. 
But  don't  give  way !    Bear  up.  Jack ! 

CRianER.  Seems  funny  'er  goin*  blue-bell  time,  an' 
the  sun  shinin*  so  warm.  I  picked  up  an  'orse-shU 
yesterday.    I  can't  never  *ave  'er  back,  zurr. 

[His  face  quivers  again. 

Strangwat.  Some  day  you'll  join  her.  Think! 
Some  lose  their  wives  for  ever. 

Cremer.  I  don't  believe  as  there's  a  future  life, 
zurr.    I  think  we  goo  to  sleep  like  the  beasts. 

Strangwat.  We're  told  otherwise.  But  come  here ! 
[Draiving  him  to  the  udndow]  Look !  Listen !  To  sleep 
in  that!  Even  if  we  do,  it  won't  be  so  bad.  Jack, 
will  it? 

Cremer.  She  wer*  a  glide  wife  to  me — no  man 
ctidn't  'ave  no  better  wife. 

Strangwat,  [Putting  his  hand  out]  Take  hold — 
hard — harder!  I  want  yours  as  much  as  you  want 
mine.  Pray  for  me,  Jack,  and  I'll  pray  for  you. 
And  we  won't  give  way,  will  we? 

Cremer.  [To  whom  the  strangeness  of  these  words 
has  given  some  relief]  No,  zurr;   thank  'ee,  zurr.     'Tes 


ACT  I  A  BIT  O'  LOVE  29 

no  glide,  I  expect.    Only,  I'll  miss  'er.    Thank  'ee, 

zurr;  kindly. 

He  lifts  his  hand  to  his  head,  turns,  and  un- 
certainly goes  out  to  the  kitchen.  And 
Strangway  stays  where  he  is,  not  knowing 
what  to  do.  Then  blindly  he  takes  up  his 
flute,  and  hatless,  hurries  out  into  the 
air, 

CUBTAIN 


ACT  II 

SCENE  I 

About  seven  o'clock  in  the  taproom  of  the  village  inn. 
The  bar,  vnih  the  appurtenances  thereof,  stretches 
across  one  end,  and  opposite  is  the  porch  door  on 
to  the  green.  The  wall  between  is  nearly  all  win- 
dow, with  leaded  panes,  one  vnde-open  casement 
whereof  lets  in  the  last  of  the  sunlight.  A  narrow 
bench  runs  under  this  broad  window.  And  this  is 
all  the  furniture,  save  three  spittoons. 

GoDLEiGH,  the  innkeeper,  a  smallish  man  with  thick 
ruffled  hair,  a  loquacious  nose,  and  apple-red  cheeks 
above  a  reddish-brown  moustache,  is  reading  the 
paper.  To  him  enters  Tibby  Jaeland  uxith  a 
shilling  in  her  mouth. 

GoDLEiGH.  Well,  Tibby  Jarland,  what've  yii  come 
for,  then?    Glass  o'  beer? 

Tibby  takes  the  shilling  from  her  mouth  and 

smiles  stolidly. 

GoDLEiGH.  [Twinkling]  I  shid  zay  glass  o'  'arf  an' 

'arf's  about  yUre  form.  [Tibby  smiles  more  broadly] 

Yii'm    a    praaper    masterpiece.     Well !    'Ave    sister 

31 


82  A  BIT  O*  LOVE  act  n 

Mercy  borrowed  ytlre  tongue  ?  [Tibbt  shakea  her  head] 
Aw,  she  'aven't.     Well,  maid  ? 

TiBBY.  Father  wants  six  clay  pipes,  please. 
GoDLEiGH.  'E  dU,  dU  'ee.    Yu  tell  yUre  father  'e 
can't  'ave  more'n  one,  not  this  avenin'.    And  'ere  'tis. 
Hand  up  yUre  shillin'. 

TiBBY  reaches  up  her  hand,  "parts  toith  the 

shilling,  and  receives  a  long  clay  pipe  and 

eleven  pennies.     In  order  to  secure  the  coins 

in  her  pinafore  she  places  the  clay  pipe  in 

her  mouth.     While  she  is  still  thus  engaged, 

Mrs.  Bradmere  enters  the  porch  and  comes 

in.    TiBBY  curtsies  stolidly. 

Mrs.  Bradmere.  Gracious,  child !    What  are  you 

doing  here  ?    And  what  have  you  got  in  your  mouth  ? 

Who  is  it?    Tibby  Jarland?  [Tibby  curtsies  again] 

Take  that  thing  out.    And  tell  your  father  from  me 

that  if  I  ever  see  you  at  the  inn  again  I  shall  tread 

on  his  toes  hard.    Godleigh,  you  know  the  law  about 

children  ? 

Godleigh.  [Cocking  his  eye,  and  not  at  all  abashed] 
Surely,  m'm.  But  she  will  come.  Go  away,  my 
dear. 

Tibby,  never  taking  her  eyes  off  Mrs.  Brad- 
mere,  or   the   pipe  from   her   mouth,   has 
backed  stolidly  to  the  door,  and  vanished. 
Mrs.  Bradmere.  [Eyeing    Godleigh]  Now,    God- 
leigh, I've  come  to  talk  to  you.    Half  the  scandal 
that  goes  about  the  village  begins  here.  [She  holds 
up  her  finger  to  check  exposttdaiion]  No,  no — it's  no 


8c.  I  A  BIT  O'  LOVE  88 

good.  You  know  the  value  of  scandal  to  your  busi- 
ness far  too  well. 

GoDLEiGH.  Wi'  all  respect,  m'm,  I  knows  the  vally 
of  it  to  youm,  tU. 

Mrs.  Bradmere.  What  do  you  mean  by  that  ? 

GoDLEiGH.  If  there  weren't  no  Rector's  lady  there 
widden'  be  no  notice  taken  o'  scandal;  an'  if  there 
weren't  no  notice  taken,  twidden  be  scandal,  to  my 
thinkin'. 

Mrs.  Bradmere.  [Winking  out  a  grim  little  smile] 
Very  well !  You've  given  me  your  views.  Now  for 
mine.  There's  a  piece  of  scandal  going  about  that's 
got  to  be  stopped,  Godleigh.  You  turn  the  tap  of  it 
off  here,  or  we'll  turn  your  tap  oflf.  You  know  me. 
See? 

Godleigh.  I  shouldn'  never  presume,  m'm,  to  know 
a  lady. 

Mrs.  Bradmere.  The  Rector's  quite  determined, 
so  is  Sir  Herbert.  Ordinary  scandal's  bad  enough, 
but  this  touches  the  Church.  While  Mr.  Strangway 
remains  curate  here,  there  must  be  no  talk  about 
him  and  his  affairs. 

Godleigh.  [Cocking  his  eye]  I  was  just  thinkin* 
how  to  dli  it,  m'm.  'Twid  be  a  brave  notion  to  putt 
the  men  in  chokey,  and  slit  the  women's  tongues- 
like,  same  as  they  dii  in  outlandish  places,  as  I'm  told. 

Mrs.  Bradmere.  Don't  talk  nonsense,  Godleigh; 
and  mind  what  I  say,  because  I  mean  it. 

Godleigh.  Make  yiire  mind  aisy,  m'm — there'll  be 
no  scandal-monkeyiu'  here  wi'  my  permission. 


34  A  BIT  O'  LOVE  act  u 

Mrs.  Bradmere  gives  him  a  keen  stare,  but 
seeing  him  perfectly  grave,   nods  her  head 
with  approval. 
Mrs.  Bradmere.  Good !    You  know  what's  being 
said,  of  course  ? 

GoDLEiaH.  {With  respectful  gravity]  YU'II  pardon 
me,  m'm,  but  ef  an'  in  case  yU  was  goin'  to  tell  me, 
there's  a  rlile  in  this  'ouse:  "No  scandal  'ere !" 

Mrs.  Bradmere.  [Tvnnkling  grimly]  You're  too 
smart  by  half,  my  man. 

GoDLEiGH.  Aw  fegs,  no,  m'm — child  in  ylire  'ands. 

Mrs.  Bradmere.  I    wouldn't    trust   you    a   yard. 

Once  more,  Godleigh !    This  is  a  Christian  village, 

and  we  mean  it  to  remain  so.    You  look  out  for 

yourself. 

The  door  opens  to  admit  the  farmers  Trusta- 
FORD   and  Burlacombe.     They  doff  their 
hats  to   Mrs.   Bradmere,   who,   after  one 
more  sharp  look  at  Godleigh,  moves  to- 
wards the  door. 
Mrs.  Bradmere.  Evenmg,     Mr.     Trustaford.  [To 
Burlacombe]  Burlacombe,  tell  your  wife  that  duck 
she  sent  up  was  in  hard  training. 

With  one  of  her  grim  winks,  and  a  nod,  she 
goes. 
Trustaford.  [Replacing  a  hat  which  is  black,  hard, 
and  not  very  new,  on  his  long  head,  above  a  long  face, 
clean-shaved  but  for  little  whiskers]  Wliat's  the  old 
grey  mare  want,  then?  [With  a  horse-laugh]  'Er's 
lukin'  awful  wise ! 


Bc.  I  A  BIT  O'  LOVE  35 

GoDLEiGH.  [Enigmatically]  Ah! 

Trustafobd.  [Sitting  on  the  bench  close  to  the  bar] 
Drop  o'  whisky,  an'  potash. 

BuRLACOMBE.  [A  tacitum,  slim,  yellowish  man,  in 
a  worn  soft  hat]  What's  niise,  Godleigh?  Drop  o' 
cider. 

Godleigh.  NUse?  There's  never  no  niise  in  this 
'ouse.  Aw,  no!  Not  wi'  my  permission.  [In  imita- 
tion] This  is  a  Christian  village. 

Tbustafoed.  Thought  the  old  grey  mare  seemed 
mighty  busy.  [To  Burlacombe]  'Tes  rather  quare 
about  the  curate's  wife  a-comin'  motorin'  this  mornin'. 
Passed  me  wi'  her  face  all  smothered  up  in  a  veil, 
goggles  an'  all.    Haw,  haw ! 

Burlacombe.  Aye! 

Trtjstaford.  Off  again  she  was  in  'alf  an  hour. 
'Er  didn't  give  poor  old  curate  much  of  a  chance, 
after  six  months. 

Godleigh.  Havin'  an  engagement  elsewhere —  No 
scandal,  please,  gentlemen. 

Burlacombe.  [Acidly]  Never  asked  to  see  my  missis. 
Passed  me  in  the  yard  like  a  stone. 

Trustaford.  'Tes  a  little  bit  rlimoursome  lately 
about  'er  doctor. 

Godleigh.  Ah !  he's  the  favourite.  But  'tes  a  dead 
secret,  Mr.  Trustaford.  Don't  yli  never  repate  it — 
there's  not  a  cat  don't  know  it  already ! 

Burlacombe  frowns,  and  Trustaford  utters 
his  laugh.     The  door  is  opened  and  Freman, 


36  A  BIT  O'  LOVE  act  ii 

a  dark  gipsyuh  man  in  the  dress  of  a  farmer, 
comes  in. 

GoDLEiGH.  Don't  yti  never  tell  Will  Freman  what 
'e  told  me ! 

Freman.  Avenin'! 

Trustaford.  Avenin*,  Will;  what's  ylire  glass  o* 
trouble  ? 

Freman.  Drop  o'  cider,  clove,  an*  dash  o*  gin. 
There's  blood  in  the  sky  to-night. 

BuRLACOMBE.  Ah!  We'll  'ave  fine  weather  now, 
with  the  full  o'  the  mline. 

Freman.  Dust  o'  wind  an'  a  drop  or  tU,  virst,  I 
reckon.     'Eard  t'  niise  about  curate  an'  'is  wife  ? 

GoDLEiGH.  No,  indeed;  an'  don't  yii  tell  us.  We'm 
Christians  'ere  in  this  village. 

Freman.  'Xain't  no  very  Christian  nlise,  neither. 
He's  sent  'er  ofiF  to  th*  doctor.  "Go  an'  live  with 
un,"  'e  says;  "my  blessin'  on  ye."  If  'er'd  a-been 
mine,  I'd  'a  tuk  the  whip  to  'er.  Tam  Jarland's 
maid,  she  yeard  it  all.  Christian,  indeed !  That's 
brave  Christianity!  "Goo  an'  live  with  un!"  'e 
told  'er. 

BuRiiACOMBE.  No,  no;  that's  not  sense — a  man  to 
say  that.  I'll  not  'ear  that  against  a  man  that  bides 
in  my  'ouse. 

Freman.  'Tes  sure,  I  tell  'ee.  The  maid  was  hid-up, 
scared-like,  behind  the  curtain.  At  it  they  went,  and 
parson  'e  says:  "Go,"  'e  says,  "I  won't  kape  'ee  from 
'im,"  'e  says,  "an'  I  won't  divorce  'ee,  as  yll  don't 
wish  it!"    They  was  'is  words,  same  as  Jarland's 


sc.  I  A  BIT  O'  LOVE  87 

maid  told  my  maid,  an'  my  maid  told  my  missis.    If 
that's  parson's  talk,  'tes  funny  work  goin'  to  church. 
Tkustafobd.    [Brooding]    'Tes     wonderful     quare, 
zurely. 

Fbeman.  Tam  Jarland's  fair  mad  wi'  curate  for 
makin'  free  wi'  his  maid's  skylark.  Parson  or  no 
parson,  'e've  no  call  to  meddle  wi'  other  people's 
praperty.  He  cam'  pokin'  'is  nose  into  my  aflFairs. 
I  told  un  I  knew  a  sight  more  'bout  'orses  than  'e 
ever  would ! 

Trustaford.  He'm  a  bit  crazy  'bout  bastes  an' 
birds. 

They  have  been  so  absorbed  that  they  have  not 
noticed  the  entrance  of  Clyst,  a  youth  with 
tousled  hair,  and  a  bright,  quick,  Celtic  eye, 
who  stands  listening,  with  a  hit  of  'paper  in 
his  hand. 

Clyst.  Ah !  he'm  that  zurely,  Mr.  Trustaford. 

[He  chuckles. 

GoDLEiGH.  Now,  Tim  Clyst,  if  an'  in  case  yii've 
a-got  some  scandal  on  yer  tongue,  don't  yii  never 
unship  it  here.  Yii  go  up  to  Rectory  where  'twill 
be  more  relished-like. 

Clyst.  \Waving  the  paper]  Will  y'  give  me  a  drink 
for  thic,  Mr.  Godleigh  ?  'Tes  rale  funny.  Aw !  'tes 
somethin'  swate.  Butiful  readin'.  Poetry.  Rale 
spice.    Yii've  a  luv'ly  voice  for  readin',  Mr.  Godleigh. 

Godleigh.  [AU  ears  and  twinkle]  Aw,  what  is  it 
then? 


38  A  BIT  O'  LOVE  act  ii 

Cltst.  Ah!    Yli  want  t'know  tU  much. 

[Putting  the  paper  in  his  pocket. 
While  he  is  speaking,  Jim  Bere  has  entered 
quietly,  vnth  his  feeble  step  and  smile,  and 
sits  down. 
Cltst.  [Kindly]  Hallo,  Jim !    Cat  come  'ome  ? 
Jim  Bere.  No. 

AU  nod,  and  speak  to  him  kindly.  And  Jim 
Bebe  smiles  at  them,  and  his  eyes  ask  of 
them  the  question,  to  which  there  is  no  an- 
swer. And  after  thai  he  sits  motionless  and 
silent,  and  they  talk  as  if  he  were  not 
there. 
GoDLEiGH.  What's  all  this,  now — no  scandal  in  my 
'ouse! 

Clyst.  'Tes   awful    peculiar — like   a   drame.    Mr. 
Burlacombe  'e  don't  like  to  hear  tell  about  drames. 
A  guess  a  won't  tell  'ee,  arter  that. 
Fbeman.  Out  wi'  it,  Tim. 

Clyst.  'Tes  powerful  thirsty  to-day,  Mr.  Godleigh. 
GoDLEiGH.  [Drauring  him  some  cider]  YU're  all  wild 
cat's  talk,  Tim;  yli've  a-got  no  tale  at  all. 
Clyst.  [Moving  for  the  cider]  Aw,  indade ! 
Godleigh.  No  tale,  no  cider ! 
Clyst.  Did  ye  ever  year  tell  of  Orphus  ? 
Thustaford.  What?    The  old  vet.:    up  to  Dray- 
leigh  ? 

Clyst.  Fegs,  no;  Orphus  that  lived  in  th'  old  time, 
an'  drawed  the  bastes  after  un  wi'  his  music,  same  as 
curate  was  tellin*  the  maids. 


Bc.  I  A  BIT  O'  LOVE  89 

Feeman.  I've  *eard  as  a  gipsy  over  to  Yellacott 
could  dii  that  wi'  'is  viddle. 

Clyst.  'Twas  no  gipsy  I  see'd  this  artemiine;  'twas 
Orphus,  down  to  Mr.  Burlacombe's  long  medder; 
settin'  there  all  dark  on  a  stone  among  the  dimsy- 
white  flowers  an'  the  cowflops,  wi'  a  bird  upon  'is 
'ead,  playin'  his  whistle  to  the  ponies. 

Feeman.  [Excitedly]  YU  did  never  zee  a  man  wi'  a 
bird  on  'is  'ead. 

Clyst.  Dida'  I? 

Feeman.  What  sort  o'  bird,  then?  Yu  tell  me 
that. 

Tettstafoed.  Praaper  old  barndoor  cock.  Haw, 
haw! 

GoDLEiGH.  [Soothingly]  'Tes  a  vairy-tale;  us  mustn't 
be  tii  partic'Iar. 

BuELACOMBE.  In  my  long  medder.^  Where  were 
yii,  then,  Tim  Clyst? 

Clyst.  Passin'  down  the  lane  on  my  bike.  Won- 
derful sorrowful-fine  music  'e  played.  The  ponies 
they  did  come  round  'e — yii  cud  zee  the  tears  runnin' 
down  their  chakes;  'twas  powerful  sad.  'E  'adn't  no 
'at  on. 

Feeman.  [Jeering]  No;  'e  'ad  a  bird  on  'is  'ead. 

Clyst.  [With  a  silencing  grin]  He  went  on  playin' 
an'  playin'.  The  ponies  they  never  miived.  An'  all 
the  dimsy-white  flowers  they  waved  and  waved,  an' 
the  wind  it  went  over  'em.     Gav'  me  a  funny  feelin'. 

GoDLEiGH.  Clyst,  yii  take  the  cherry  bun ! 

Clyst.  Where's  that  cider,  Mr.  Godleigh? 


40  A  BIT  O'  LOVE  act  ii 

GoDLEiGH.  [Bending  over  the  cider]  YU've  a  -'ad  tU 
much  already,  Tim. 

The  door  is  opened,  and  Tam  Jarland  appears. 
He  walks  rather  unsteadily;  a  man  with  a 
heavy  jowl,  and  sullen,  strange,  epileptic- 
looking  eyes. 

Clyst.  [Pointing  to  Jabland]  'Tis  Tam  Jarland 
there  'as  the  cargo  aboard. 

Jarland.  Avenin*,  all !  [To  Godleigh]  Pint  o'  beer. 
[To  Jim  Bebe]  Avenin',  Jim. 

[Jm  Bere  looks  at  him  and  smiles. 

Godleigh.  [Serving  him  after  a  moment's  hesitation] 
'Ere  y'are,  Tam.  [To  Clyst,  who  has  taken  out  his 
paper  again]  Where'd  yii  get  thiccy  paper  ? 

Clyst.  [Putting  down  his  cider-mug  empty]  Ylire 
tongue  dU  watter,  don't  it,  Mr.  Godleigh?  [Holding 
out  his  mug]  No  zider,  no  poetry.  'Tis  amazin'  sor- 
rowful; Shakespeare  over  again.  "The  boy  stUde  on 
the  burnin'  deck." 

Freman.  Yii  and  yer  yap ! 

Clyst.  Ah!  Yii  wait  a  bit.  When  I  come  back 
down  t'lane  again,  Orphus  'e  was  vanished  away; 
there  was  naught  in  the  field  but  the  ponies,  an'  a 
praaper  old  magpie,  a-top  o'  the  hedge.  I  zee  some- 
thin' white  in  the  beako'  the  fowl, so  I  giv'  a  "Whisht," 
an'  'e  drops  it  smart,  an'  oflf  'e  go.  I  gets  over  bank 
an'  picks  un  up,  and  here't  be. 

[He  holds  out  his  mug. 

Burlacombe.  [Tartly]  Here,  give  'im  'is  cider. 
Hade  it  ylireself,  ye  young  teasewings. 


sc.  I  A  BIT  O'  LOVE  41 

Clyst,  having  secured  his  cider,  drinks  it  off. 

Holding  up  the  paper  to  the  light,  he  makes 

as  if  to  begin,  then  slides  his  eye  round, 

tantalizing. 

Cltst.  'Tes  a  pity  I  hain't  dressed  in  a  white  gown, 

an'  flowers  in  me  'air. 

Freman.  Read  it,  or  we'll  'ave  yii  out  o'  this. 
Clyst.  Aw,  don't  'ee  shake  my  nerve,  now ! 

He  begins  reading  with  mock  heroism,  in  his 
soft,  high,  burring  voice.  Thus,  in  his  rus- 
tic accent,  go  the  lines: 

God  lighted  the  zun  in  'eaven  far. 
Lighted  the  vrrefly  an'  the  ztar. 
My  'eart  'E  lighted  not ! 

God  lighted  the  vields  fur  lambs  to  play. 
Lighted  the  bright  strames,  'an  the  may. 
My  'eart  'E  lighted  not ! 

God  lighted  the  miine,  the  Arab's  way. 
He  lights  to-morrer,  an'  to-day. 
My  'eart  'E  'ath  vorgot ! 

When  he  has  finished,  there  is  silence.     Then 
Trtjstaford,  scratching  his  head,  speaks: 
Trustaford.  'Tes  amazin'  funny  stuff. 
Freman.  [Looking  over  Clyst's  shoulder]  Be  danged ! 
'Tes  the  curate's  'andwritin'.     'Twas  curate  wi'  the 
ponies,  after  that. 

Clyst.  Fancy,  now!    Aw,  Will  Freman,  an't  yii 
bright ! 


42  A  BIT  O'  LOVE  act  ii 

Freuian.  But  'e  'adn't  no  bird  on  'is  *ead. 

Cltst.  Ya-as,  'e  'ad. 

Jarland.  [In  a  dull,  threatening  voice]  'E  'ad  my 
maid's  bird,  this  artemline.  'Ead  or  no,  and  parson 
or  no,  I'll  gie  'im  one  for  that. 

Freman.  Ah !    And  'e  meddled  wi*  my  'orses. 

Trustafokd.  I'm  thinkin'  'twas  an  old  cuckoo 
bird  'e  'ad  on  'is  'ead.    Haw,  haw! 

GoDLEiGH.  "His  'eart  she  'ath  vorgot!" 

Freman.  'E's  a  fine  one  to  be  tachin'  our  maids 
convirmation. 

GoDLEiGH.  Would  ye  'ave  it  the  old  Rector  then? 
Wi'  'is  gouty  shoe?  Rackon  the  maids  wid  rather 
'twas  curate;  eh,  Mr.  Burlacombe? 

Btjrlacombe.  [Abruptly]  Curate's  a  glide  man. 

Jarland.  [With  the  comatose  ferocity  of  drink]  I'll  be 
even  wi'  un. 

Freman.  [Excitedly]  Tell  'ee  one  thing — 'tes  not  a 
proper  man  o'  God  to  'ave  about,  wi'  'is  lUse  goin's  on. 
Out  vrom  'ere  he  oughter  go. 

Burlacombe.  You  med  go  further  an'  fare  worse. 

Freman.  What's  'e  dliin',  then,  lettin'  'is  wife  run  ofiF  ? 

Trustaford.  [Scratching  his  head]  If  an'  in  case  'e 
can't  kape  'er,  'tes  a  funny  way  o'  dliin'  things  not  to 
divorce  'er,  after  that.  If  a  parson's  not  to  dli  the 
Christian  thing,  whli  is,  then? 

Burlacombe.  'Tes  a  bit  immoral-like  to  pass  over 
a  thing  like  that.  'Tes  funny  if  women's  goin's  on's 
to  be  encoiu-aged. 

Freman.  Act  of  a  coward,  I  zay. 


sc.  I  A  BIT  O'  LOVE  43 

BuELACOMBE.  The  curate  ain't  no  coward. 

Preman.  He  bides  in  yiire  house;  'tes  natural  for 
yli  to  stand  up  for  un;  I'll  wager  Mrs.  Burlacombe 
don't,  though.  My  missis  was  fair  shocked.  "Will," 
she  says,  "if  yii  ever  make  vur  to  let  me  go  like  that, 
I  widden  never  stay  wi'  yii,"  she  says. 

Tkustafohd.  'Tes  settin'  a  bad  example,  for  zure. 

BuRiiACOMBE.  'Tes  all  very  aisy  talkin';  whatshlide 
'e  dii,  then  ? 

Freman.  [Excitedly]  Go  over  to  Durford  and  say 
to  that  doctor:  "Yii  come  about  my  missis,  an'  zee 
what  I'll  dii  to  'ee."  An'  take  'er  'ome  an'  zee  she 
don't  misbe'ave  again. 

Clyst.  'E  can't  take  'er  ef  'er  don'  want  t'  come — 
I've  'eard  lawyer,  that  lodged  wi'  us,  say  that. 

Freman.  All  right  then,  'e  ought  to  'ave  the  law  of 
'er  and  'er  doctor;  an'  zee  'er  goin's  on  don't  prosper; 
'e'd  get  damages,  tii.  But  this  way  'tes  a  nice  ex- 
ample he'm  settin'  folks.  Parson  indade !  My  missis 
an'  the  maids  they  won't  goo  near  the  church  to-night, 
an'  I  wager  no  one  else  won't,  neither. 

Jarland.  [Lurching  toith  his  pewter  up  to  Godleigh] 
The  beggar !    I'll  be  even  wi'  un. 

Godleigh.  [Looking  at  him  in  doubt]  'Tes  the  last, 
then,  Tam. 

Having  received  his  beer,  Jarland  stands,  lean- 
ing against  the  bar,  drinking. 

Burlacombe.  [Suddenly]  I  don'  goo  with  what 
curate's  diiin' — 'tes  tii  soft  'carted;  he'm  a  miiney 
kind  o'  man  altogether,  wi'  'is  flute  an'  'is  poetry; 


44  A  BIT  O'  LOVE  act  ii 

but  he've  a-lodged  in  my  'ouse  this  year  an*  more, 
and  always  'ad  an  'elpin'  'and  for  every  one.  I've 
got  a  likin'  for  him  an'  there's  an  end  of  it. 

Jarland,  The  coward ! 

Trustaford.  I  don'  trouble  nothin'  about  that, 
Tam  Jarland.  [Turning  to  Burlacombe]  What  gits 
me  is  'e  don't  seem  to  'ave  no  zense  o'  what's  his 
own  praperty. 

Jarland.  Take  other  folk's  property  fast  enough! 
[He  saws  the  air  with  his  empty  peioter.  The  others 
have  all  turned  to  him,  dravm  by  the  fascination  that  a 
man  in  liquor  has  for  his  fellow-men.  The  hell  for 
church  has  begun  to  ring,  the  sun  is  down,  and  it  is 
getting  dusk.]  He  wants  one  on  his  crop,  an'  one  in 
'is  belly;  'e  wants  a  man  to  take  an'  gie  un  a  glide 
hidin' — zame  as  he  oughter  give  'is  fly-be-night  of  a 
wife.  [Strangwat  in  his  dark  clothes  has  entered,  and 
stands  by  the  door,  his  lips  compressed  to  a  colourless 
line,  his  thin,  darkish  face  grey-white]  Zame  as  a  man 
wid  ha'  gi'en  the  doctor,  for  takin'  what  isn't  his'n. 

AU  bvi  Jarland  have  seen  Strangwat.  He 
steps  forward,  Jarland  sees  him  now;  his 
jaw  drops  a  litUe,  and  he  is  silent. 

Strangwat.  I  came  for  a  little  brandy,  Mr.  God- 
leigh — feeling  rather  faint.  Afraid  I  mightn't  get 
through  the  service. 

(todleioh.  [With  professional  composure]  Marteil's 
Three  Star,  zurr,  or  'Ennessy's  ? 

Strangwat.  [Looking  at  Jarland]  Thank  you;  I 
believe  I  can  do  without,  now.  [He  turns  to  go. 


Bc.  I  A  BIT  O'  LOVE  45 

In  the  deadly  silence,  Godleigh  touches  the 

arm  of  Jabland,  who,  leaning  against  the 

bar  with  the  pewter  in  his  hand,  is  staring 

vnth  his  strange  lowering  eyes  straight  at 

Strangway, 

Jabland.  [Galvanized  by  the  touch  into  drunken  rage] 

Lave  me  be — I'll  talk  to  un — parson  or  no.    I'll  tache 

un  to  meddle  wi'  my  maid's  bird.    I'll  tache  un  to 

kape  'is  thievin'  'ands  to  'imself. 

[Strangway  turns  again. 
Clyst.  Be  quiet,  Tam. 

Jarland.  [Never  loosing  Strangway  vnth  his  eyes — 
like  a  bull-dog  who  sees  red]  That's  for  one  chake; 
zee  un  turn  t'other,  the  white-livered  buty !  Whli 
lets  another  man  'ave  'is  wife,  an'  never  the  sperit  to 
go  vor  un ! 

BuBLACOMBE.  Shame,  Jarland ;  quiet,  man  ! 

They   are   all   looking   at   Strangway,   who, 
under  Jarland's  drunken  insults  is  stand- 
ing rigid,  vnth  his  eyes  closed,  and  his  hands 
hard  clenched.     The  church  bell  has  stopped 
slow  ringing,  and  begun  its  five  minutes' 
hurrying  note. 
Trust AFORD.  [Rising,  and  trying  to  hook  his  arm 
into  Jarland's]  Come  away,  Tam;    yii've  a-'ad  tU 
much,  man. 

Jarland.  [Shaking  him  off]  Zee,  'e  darsen't  touch 
me;  I  might  'it  un  in  the  vace  an'  'e  darsen't;  'e's 
afraid — like  'e  was  o'  the  doctor. 

He  raises  the  pewter  as  though  to  fling  it,  but 


46  A  BIT  O'  LOVE  act  ii 

it  is  seized  by  Godleigh  from  behind,  and 
falls  clattering  to  the  floor.  Strangway  Ao* 
not  moved. 

Jarland.  [Shaking  his  fist  almx)st  in  his  face]  Llike 
at  iin,  lUke  at  un !    A  man  wi'  a  slut  for  a  wife 

As  he  utters  the  word  "wife"  Strangway 
seizes  the  outstretched  fist,  and  with  a  ju- 
jitsu  movement,  draws  him  into  his  clutch, 
helpless.  And  as  they  sway  and  struggle 
in  the  open  window,  with  the  false  strength 
of  fury  he  forces  Jarland  through.  There 
is  a  crash  of  broken  glass  from  outside. 
At  the  sound  Strangway  comes  to  him- 
self. A  look  of  agony  passes  over  his 
face.  His  eyes  light  on  Jim  Bere,  who 
has  suddenly  risen,  and  stands  feebly 
clapping  his  hands.  Strangway  rushes 
out. 

Excitedly  gathering  at  the  window,  they  aU 
speak  at  once. 

Clyst.  Tarn's  hatchin*  of  jiire  cucumbers,  Mr. 
Godleigh. 

Trustaford.  'E  did  crash;  haw,  haw! 

Freman.  'Twas  a  brave  throw,  zUrely.  WhU  wid 
a'  thought  it? 

Clyst.  Tarn's  crawlin'  out.  [Leaning  through  toin- 
dow]  Hallo,  Tarn — 'ow's  t'  base,  old  man  ? 

Freman.  [Excitedly]  They'm  all  comin*  up  from 
churchyard  to  zee. 


Bc.  I  A  BIT  O'  LOVE  47 

Trustaford.  Tarn  dli  lUke  wonderful  aztonished; 
haw,  haw  !    Poor  old  Tam ! 

Clyst.  Can  yii  zee  curate?  Rackon  'e'm  gone 
into  church.  Aw,  yes;  gettin'  a  bit  dinasy — sarvice 
time.  [A  moment's  hush. 

Trustaford.  Well,  I'm  jiggered.  In  'alf  an  hour 
he'm  got  to  prache. 

GoDLEiGH.  'Tes  a  Christian  village,  boys. 

Feebly,  quietly,  Jim  Bere  laughs.     There  is 
silence;  hut  the  hell  is  heard  still  ringing. 


curtain. 


SCENE  n 

The  same — in  daylight  dying  fast.  A  lamp  is  burning 
on  the  bar.  A  chair  has  been  placed  in  the  centre 
of  the  room,  facing  the  bench  under  the  window, 
on  which  are  seated  from  right  to  left,  Godleigh, 
Sol  Potter  the  village  shopman,  Trustaford, 
BuRLAcoMBE,  Freman,  Jim  Bere,  and  Morse 
the  blacksmith.  Clyst  is  squatting  on  a  stool  by 
the  bar,  and  at  the  other  end  Jarland,  sobered  and 
lowering,  leans  against  the  lintel  of  the  porch  lead- 
ing to  the  door,  round  which  are  gathered  Jive  or 
six  sturdy  fellows,  dumb  as  fishes.    No  one  sits 


48  A  BIT  O'  LOVE  act  ii 

in  the  chair.  In  the  unnatural  silence  thai  reigns, 
the  distant  sound  of  the  wheezy  church  organ  and 
voices  singing  can  be  heard. 

Thustaford.  [After  a  prolonged  clearing  of  his 
throat]  What  I  mean  to  zay  is  that  'tes  no  ylise,  not 
a  bit  o'  yllse  in  the  world,  not  dliin'  of  things  prop>- 
erly.  If  an*  in  case  we'm  to  carry  a  resolution  dis- 
approvin'  o'  curate,  it  must  all  be  done  so  as  no  one 
can't  zay  nothin'. 

Sol  Potter.  That's  what  I  zay,  Mr.  Trustaford; 
ef  so  be  as  'tis  to  be  a  village  meetin',  then  it  must 
be  all  done  proper. 

Freman.  That's  right,  Sol  Potter.  I  purpose  Mr. 
Sol  Potter  into  the  chair.     Whii  seconds  that  ? 

A  silence.    Voices  from  among  the  dumb-as- 
fishes:  "I  dli." 

Cltst.  [Excitedly]  YU  can't  putt  that  to  the  meetin'. 
Only  a  chairman  can  putt  it  to  the  meetin'.  I  pur- 
pose that  Mr.  Burlacombe — bein'  as  how  he's  chair- 
man o'  the  Parish  Council — take  the  chair. 

Freman.  Ef  so  be  as  I  can't  putt  it,  yli  can't  putt 
that  neither. 

Trustaford.  'Tes  not  a  bit  o'  ylise;  us  can't  'ave 
no  meetin'  without  a  chairman. 

GoDLEiGH.  Us  can't  'ave  no  chairman  without  a 
meetin'  to  elect  un,  that's  zUre.  [A  silence. 

Morse.  [Heavily]  To  my  way  o'  thinkin',  Mr.  God- 
leigh  speaks  zense;  us  must  'ave  a  meetin'  before  us 
can  'ave  a  chairman. 

Clyst.  Then  what  we  got  to  dU's  to  elect  a  meetin'. 


Bc.  n  A  BIT  O'  LOVE  49 

BuRLACOMBE.  [Soufly]  YU'U  not  find  no  procedure 
for  that. 

Voices  from  among  the  dumh-as-fishes :    "Mr. 
Burlaeombe  'e  oughter  know." 

Sol  Potter.  [Scratching  his  head — uoith  heavy  so- 
lemnity] 'Tes  my  belief  there's  no  other  way  to  dii, 
but  to  elect  a  chairman  to  call  a  meetin';  an'  then 
for  that  meetin'  to  elect  a  chairman. 

Cltst.  I  purpose  Mr.  Burlaeombe  as  chairman  to 
call  a  meetin'. 

Freman.  I  purpose  Sol  Potter. 

GoDLEiGH.  Can't    'ave    tu    propositions    together 
before  a  meetin';    that's  apple-pie  ziire  vur  zurtain. 
Voice  from  among  the  dumb-as-fishes :  "There 
ain't  no  meetin'  yet,  Sol  Potter  zays." 

Trustaford.  Us  must  get  the  rights  of  it  zettled 
some'ow.  'Tes  like  the  darned  old  chicken  an'  the 
egg — meetin'  or  chairman — which  come  virst? 

Sol  Potter.  [Conciliating]  To  my  thinkin'  there 
shid  be  another  way  o'  diiin'  it,  to  get  round  it  like 
with  a  circumbendibus.  'T'all  comes  from  takin' 
diflFerent  viise,  in  a  manner  o'  spakin'. 

Freman.  Yii  goo  an'  zet  in  that  chair. 

Sol  Potter.  [With  a  glance  at  Burlacombe — 
modestly]  I  shid'n  never  like  fur  to  dii  that,  with 
Mr.  Burlacombe  zettin'  there. 

Burlacombe.  [Rising]  'Tes  all  darned  fulishness. 

Amidst  an  uneasy  shufflement  of  feet  he  moves 
to  the  door,  and  goes  out  into  the  darkness. 


50  A  BIT  O'  LOVE  act  n 

Cltst.  [Seeing  his  candidate  thus  depart]  Rackon 
curate's  pretty  well  thrli  by  now,  I'm  goin*  to  zee. 
[As  he  passes  Jabland]  'Ow's  ta  base,  old  man  ? 

[He  goes  out. 
One  of  the  dumh-as-fishes  moves  from  the  door 
and  fills  the  space  left  on  the  bench  by  Bukla- 
combe's  departure. 

JabiiAND.  Dam  all  this  puzzivantin' !  [To  Sol  Pot- 
tee]  Goo  an'  zet  in  that  chair. 

Sol  Potteb.  [Rising  and  going  to  the  chair;  there 
he  stands,  changing  from  one  to  the  other  of  his  short 
broad  feet  and  sweating  from  modesty  and  worth]  'Tes 
my  duty  now,  gentlemen,  to  call  a  meetin*  of  the 
parishioners  of  this  parish.  I  beg  therefore  to  de- 
clare that  this  is  a  meetin*  in  accordance  with  my 
duty  as  chairman  of  this  meetin*  which  elected  me 
chairman  to  call  this  meetin*.  And  I  purceed  to  vacate 
the  chair  so  that  this  meetin'  may  now  purceed  to 
elect  a  chairman. 

He  gets  up  from  the  chair,  and  tciping  the 
sweat  from  his  brow,  goes  back  to  his  seat. 

Fbeman.  Mr.  Chairman,  I  rise  on  a  point  of  order. 

GoDLEiGH.  There  ain't  no  chairman. 

Fbeman,  I  don't  give  a  dam  for  that.  I  rise  on 
a  point  of  order. 

GoDLEiGH.  'Tes  a  chairman  that  decides  points  of 
order.  'Tes  certain  yli  can't  rise  on  no  points  what- 
ever till  there's  a  chairman. 

Tbustafobd.  'Tes  no  yllse  ylire  risin',  not  the  least 


Bc.  n  A  BIT  O'  LOVE  51 

bit  in  the  world,  till  there's  some  one  to  zet  yU  down 
again.    Haw,  haw ! 

Voice  from  the  dumb-as-fishes :   "Mr.  Trusta- 
ford  'e's  right." 

Fbeman.  What  I  zay  is  the  chairman  ought  never 
to  'ave  vacated  the  chair  till  I'd  risen  on  my  point  of 
order.    I  purpose  that  he  goo  and  zet  down  again. 

GoDLEiGH.  Yii  can't  purpose  that  to  this  meetin'; 
yii  can  only  purpose  that  to  the  old  meetin'  that's 
not  zettin'  any  longer. 

Fkeman.  [Excitedly]  I  don'  care  what  old  meetin' 
'tis  that's  zettin'.  I  purpose  that  Sol  Potter  goo  an' 
zet  in  that  chair  again,  while  I  rise  on  my  point  of 
order. 

Trustafobd.  [Scratching  his  head]  'Tesn't  regular — 
but  I  guess  yli've  got  to  goo,  Sol,  or  us  shan't  'ave 
no  peace. 

Sol  Potter,  still  wiping  his  brow,  goes  back 
to  the  chair, 

Morse.  [Stolidly — to  Freman]  Zet  down.  Will  Fre- 
man.  [He  pulls  at  him  with  a  blacksmith's  arm. 

Freman.  [Remaining  erect  with  an  effort]  I'm  not 
a-goin'  to  zet  down  till  I've  arisen. 

JariiAnd.  Now  then,  there  'e  is  in  the  chair.  What's 
yllre  point  of  order? 

Freman.  [Darting  his  eyes  here  and  there,  and  fling- 
ing his  hand  up  to  his  gipsy-like  head]  'Twas — 'twas — 
Darned  ef  y'  'aven't  putt  it  clean  out  o'  my  'ead. 

Jarland.  We  can't  wait  for  yiire  points  of  order. 
Come  out  o'  that  chair,  Sol  Potter. 


52  A  BIT  O'  LOVE  act  ii 

Sol  Potter  rises  and  is  about  to  vacate  the 
chair. 

Fkeman.  I  know !  There  ought  to  'a  been  minutes 
taken.  Yli  can't  'ave  no  meetin'  without  minutes. 
When  us  comes  to  electin'  a  chairman  o'  the  next 
meetin',  'e  won't  'ave  no  minutes  to  read. 

Sol  Potter.  'Twas  only  to  putt  down  that  I  was 
elected  chairman  to  elect  a  meetin'  to  elect  a  chair- 
man to  preside  over  a  meetin'  to  pass  a  resolution 
dalin'  wi'  th«  curate.     That's  aisy  set  down,  that  is. 

Freman.  [Mollified]  We'll  'ave  that  zet  down,  then, 
while  we're  electin'  the  chairman  o'  the  next  meetin'. 

[A  silence. 

Trustaford.  Well  then,  seein'  this  is  the  praaper 
old  meetin'  for  carryin'  the  resolution  about  the  curate, 
I  purpose  Mr.  Sol  Potter  take  the  chair. 

Freman.  I  purpose  Mr.  Trustaford.  I  'aven't  a-got 
nothin'  against  Sol  Potter,  but  seein'  that  he  elected 
the  meetin'  that's  to  elect  'im,  it  might  be  said  that 
'e  was  electin'  of  himzelf  in  a  manner  of  spakin'.  Us 
don't  want  that  said. 

Morse.  [Amid  meditative  grunts  from  the  dumb-as- 
fishes]  There's  some-at  in  that.  One  o'  they  til  pur- 
posals  must  be  putt  to  the  meetin'. 

Freman.  Second  must  be  putt  virst,  fur  zlire. 

Trustaford.  I  dunno  as  I  wants  to  zet  in  that 
chair.  To  hiss  the  curate,  'tis  a  ticklish  sort  of  a  job 
after  that.    Vurst  comes  afore  second,  Will  Freeman. 

Freman.  Second  is  amendment  to  virst.  'Tes  the 
amendments  is  putt  virst. 


sc.  II  A  BIT  O'  LOVE  63 

Trustafoed.  'Ow's  that,  Mr.  Godleigh?  I'm  not 
particular  eggzac'ly  to  a  dilly  zort  of  a  point  like 
that. 

Sol  Potter.  [Scratching  his  head]  'Tes  a  very  nice 
point,  for  zUre. 

Godleigh.  'Tes  undoubtedly  for  the  chairman  to 
decide. 

Voice  from  the  duwh-as-fishes :    "But  there 
ain't  no  chairman  yet." 

Jarland.  Sol  Potter's  chairman. 

Freman.  No,  'e  ain't. 

Morse.  Yes,  'e  is — 'e's  chairman  till  this  second 
old  meetin'  gets  on  the  go. 

Freman.  I  deny  that.  What  dii  yii  say,  Mr. 
Trustaford  ? 

Trustaford.  I  can't  'ardly  tell.  It  dii  zeem  a 
darned  long-suflFerin'  sort  of  a  business  altogether. 

[A  silence. 

Morse.  [Slowly]  Tell  'ee  what  'tis,  us  shan't  dii  no 
giide  like  this. 

Godleigh.  'Tes  for  Mr.  Freman  or  Mr.  Trustaford, 
one  or  t'other  to  withdraw  their  motions. 

Trustaford.  [AJter  a  pause,  with  cautious  generos- 
ity] I've  no  objections  to  withdrawin'  mine,  if  Will 
Freman'U  withdraw  his'n. 

Freman.  I  won't  never  be  be'indhand.  If  Mr. 
Trustaford  withdraws,  I  withdraws  mine. 

Morse.  [With  relief]  That's  zensible.  Putt  the 
motion  to  the  meetin'. 


64  A  BIT  O'  LOVE  act  ii 

Sol  Potter.  There  ain't  no  motion  left  to  putt. 

[Silence  of  consternation. 
[In  the  confusion  Jim  Bkre  is  seen  to  stand  up. 
GoDLEiGH.  Jim  Bere  to  spake.    Silence  for  Jim ! 
Voices.  Aye !    Silence  for  Jim ! 
Sol  Potter.  Well,  Jim  ? 
Jim.  [Smiling  and  slow]  Nothin'  dliin'. 
Trustaford.  Bravo, Jim!    YU'm right.    Bestzense 
yet! 

[Applause  from  the  dumb-as-fishes. 

[With  his  smile  brightening,  Jim  resumes  his  seat. 
Sol  Potter.  [Wiping  his  brow]  Dli  seem  to  me, 
gentlemen,  seein'  as  we'm  got  into  a  bit  of  a  tangle 
in  a  manner  of  spakin',  'twid  be  the  most  zimplest 
and  vairest  way  to  begin  all  over  vrom  the  beginnin', 
so's  t'ave  it  all  vair  an'  square  for  every  one. 

In  the  uproar  of  "Aye"  and  "No,"  it  is  no- 
ticed that  TiBBY  Jarland  is  standing  in 
front  of  her  father  with  her  finger,  for  want 
of  something  better,  in  her  mouth. 
TiBBY.  [In  her  stolid  voice]  Please,  sister  Mercy  says, 
curate  'ave  got  to  "Lastly."  [Jarland  picks  her  up, 
and  there  is  silence.]  An'  please  to  come  quick. 
Jarland.  Come  on,  mates;   quietly  now! 

[He  goes  out,  and  all  begin  to  follow  him. 

Morse.  [Slowest,  save  for  Sol  Potter]  'Tes  rare 

lucky  us  was  all  agreed  to  hiss  the  curate  afore  us 

began  the  botherin'  old  meetin',  or  us  widn'  'ardly 

*ave  'ad  time  to  settle  what  to  dli. 


8c.  11  A  BIT  O'  LOVE  55 

Sol  Potter.  [Scratching   his   head]  Aye,    'tes   rare 
lucky,  but  I  dunno  if  'tes  altogether  reg'Iar. 


CUBTAIN. 


SCENE  m 

The  village  green  before  the  churchyard  and  the  yew- 
trees  at  the  gate.  Into  the  pitch  dark  under  the 
yews,  light  comes  out  through  the  half-open  church 
door.  Figures  are  lurking,  or  moving  stealthily 
— people  waiting  and  listening  to  the  sound  of  a 
voice  speaking  in  the  church  words  that  are  inau- 
dible. Excited  whispering  and  faint  giggles  come 
from  the  deepest  yew-tree  shade,  mxide  ghostly  by 
the  white  faces  and  the  frocks  of  young  girls  con- 
tinually flitting  up  and  back  in  the  blackness. 
A  girVs  figure  comes  flying  out  from  the  porch, 
down  the  path  of  light,  and  joins  the  stealthy 
group. 

Whispering  Voice  of  Mercy.  Where's  'e  got  to 
now,  Gladys? 

Whispering  Voice  of  Gladys.  'E've  just  finished. 

Voice  of  Connie.  Whii  pushed  t'door  open  ? 

Voice  of  Gladys.  Tim  Clyst — I  giv'  it  a  little 
push,  meself. 


56  A  BIT  O'  LOVE  act  n 

Voice  of  Connie.  Oh! 

Voice  or  Gladys.  Tim  Clyst's  gone  in ! 

Another  Voice.  0-o-o-h! 

Voice  of  Mercy.  WhU  else  is  there,  tli  ? 

Voice  of  Gladys.  Ivy's  there,  an'  old  Mrs.  Pot- 
ter, an'  tU  o'  the  maids  from  th'Hall;  that's  all  as 
ever. 

Voice  of  Connie.  Not  the  old  grey  mare? 

Voice  of  Gladys.  No.  She  ain't  ther*.  'Twill 
just  be  th'ymn  now,  an'  the  Blessin'.  Tibbj'  gone 
for  'em? 

Voice  of  Mercy.  Yes. 

Voice  of  Connie.  Mr.  Burlacombe's  gone  in  home, 
I  saw  'im  pass  by  just  now — 'e  don'  like  it.  Father 
don't  like  it  neither. 

Voice  of  Mercy.  Mr.  Strangway  shouln'  'ave 
taken  my  skylark,  an*  thrown  father  out  o'  winder. 
'Tis  goin'  to  be  awful  fun !    Oh ! 

She  jumps  up  and  down  in  the  darkness. 
And  a  voice  from  far  in  the  shadow  says: 
"Hsssh!  Quiet,  yli  maids!"  The  voice 
has  ceased  speaking  in  the  church.  There 
is  a  moment's  dead  silence.  The  voice 
speaks  again;  then  from  the  wheezy  little 
organ  come  the  first  faini  chords  of  a 
hymn. 

Gladys.  "Nearer,  my  God,  to  Thee!" 
Voice  of  Mercy.  'Twill   be  funny,   with   no  one 
'ardly  singin'. 


sc.  Ill  A  BIT  O'  LOVE  57 

The  sound  of  the  old  hymn  sung  by  just  six 
voices  comes  out  to  them  rather  sweet  and 
clear. 

Gladts.  [Softly]  'Tis   pretty,    tii.    Why!    They're 
only  singin'  one  verse ! 

A  moment's  silence,  and  the  voice  speaks, 
uplifted,  pronouncing  the   Blessing:    "The 

peace    of    God "    As    the    last    words 

die  away,  dark  figures  from  the  inn  ap- 
proach over  the  grass,  till  quite  a  crowd 
seems  standing  there  without  a  word  spoken. 
Then  from  out  the  church  porch  come  the 
congregation.  Tim  Clyst  first,  hastily  lost 
among  the  waiting  figures  in  the  dark; 
old  Mrs.  Potter,  a  half-blind  old  lady 
groping  her  way  and  perceiving  nothing 
out  of  the  ordinary;  the  two  maids  from 
the  Hall,  self-conscious  and  scared,  scut- 
tling along.  Last,  Ivr  Bublacombe  quickly, 
and  starting  back  at  the  dim,  half-hidden 
crowd. 

Voice  of  Gladys.  [Whispering]  Ivy !    Here,  quick ! 
Ivy  sways,  darts  off  towards  the  voice,  and  is 
lost  in  the  shadow. 

Voice  of  Freman.  [Low]  Wait,   boys,   till   I   give 
signal. 

Two  or  three  squirks  and  giggles;  Tim  Clyst's 
voice:  "Ya-as!  Don't  'ee  tread  on  my 
toe!"  A  soft,  frightened  "0-o-h!"  from 
a   girl.    Some   quick,   excited  whisperings: 


58  A  BIT  O'  LOVE  act  n 

"Luke!"  "Zee  there!"  "He's  comin'!" 
And  then  a  perfectly  dead  silence.  The 
figure  of  Strangway  m  seen  in  his  dark 
clothes,  passing  from  the  vestry  to  the  church 
porch.  He  stands  plainly  visible  in  the 
lighted  porch,  locking  the  door,  then  steps 
forward.  Just  as  he  reaches  the  edge  of 
the  porch,  a  low  hiss  breaks  the  silence.  It 
swells  very  graduxiUy  into  a  long,  hissing 
groan.  Strangway  stands  motionless,  his 
hand  over  his  eyes,  staring  into  the  dark- 
ness. A  girVs  figure  can  be  seen  to  break 
out  of  the  darkness  and  rush  away.  When 
at  last  the  groaning  has  died  into  sheer  ex- 
pectancy, Strangway  drops  his  hand. 

Strangway.  [In  a  low  voice]  Yes!    I'm  glad.    Is 
Jarland  there? 

Freman.  He's  'ere — no  thanks  to  yU !    Hsss ! 

[The  hiss  breaks  out  again,  then  dies  away. 

Jarland's  Voice.  [Threatening]  Try  if  yli  can  dli 
it  again. 

Strangway.  No,  Jarland,  no!    I  ask  you  to  for- 
give me.    Humbly ! 

[A  hesitating  silence,  broken  by  muttering. 

Clyst's  Voice.  Bravo! 

A  Voice,  That's  vair ! 

A  Voice.  'E's  afraid  o'  the  sack — that's  what  'tis. 

A  Voice.  [Groaning]  'E's  a  praaper  coward. 

A  Voice.  WhU  funked  the  doctor? 

Clyst's  Voice.  Shame  on  'ee,  therrl 


8c.  in  A  BIT  O'  LOVE  59 

Stbangway.  You're  right — all  of  you !    I'm  not  fit ! 
An  uneasy  and  excited  muttering  and  whisper- 
ing dies  away  into  renewed  silence. 
Strangwat.  What  I  did  to  Tarn  Jarland  is  not  the 
real  cause  of  what  you're  doing,  is  it?    I  understand. 
But  don't  be  troubled.    It's  all  over.    I'm  going — 
you'll   get  some   one  better.    Forgive   me,  Jarland. 
I  can't  see  your  face — it's  very  dark. 

Freman's  Voice.  [Mocking]  Wait  for  the  full 
mixne. 
GoDLEiGH.  [Very  low]  "My  'eart  *E  lighted  not!" 
Stbangway.  [Starting  at  the  sound  of  his  own  words 
thus  mysteriously  given  him  out  of  the  darkness]  Who- 
ever found  that,  please  tear  it  up!  [After  a  moment's 
silence]  Many  of  you  have  been  very  kind  to  me. 
You  won't  see  me  again —    Good-bye,  all ! 

He  stands  for  a  second  motionless,  then  moves 

resolutely  down  into  the  darkness  so  peopled 

vnth  shadows. 

Uncertain  Voices  as  he  passes.  Good-bye,  zurr ! 

Good  luck,  zurr !  [He  has  gone. 

Cltst's  Voice.  Three  cheers  for  Mr.  Strangway! 

And  a  queer,  strangled  cheer,  with  groans  still 

threading  it,  arises. 


curtain. 


ACT  III 

SCENE  I 

In  the  BuRLACOMBEs'  hxdl-sittingroom  the  curtains  are 
dravm,  a  lamp  burns,  and  the  door  stands  open. 
BuRLACOMBE  and  his  vnfe  are  hovering  there, 
listening  to  the  sound  of  mingled  cheers  and 
groaning. 

Mrs.  Burlacombe.  Aw!  my  gUdeness — what  a 
thing  t'appen!  I'd  sliner  'a  lost  all  me  ducks.  [She 
makes  towards  the  inner  door]  I  can't  never  face  'im. 

Burlacombe.  'E  can't  expect  nothin'  else,  if  'e  act 
like  that. 

Mrs.  Burlacombe.  'Tes  only  dliin'  as  'e'd  be  done 
by. 

Burlacombe.  Aw!  YU  can't  go  on  forgivin'  'ere, 
an'  forgivin'  there.     'Tesn't  nat'ral. 

Mrs.  Burlacombe.  'Tes  the  mischief  'e'm  a  par- 
son. 'Tes  'im  bein'  a  lamb  o'  God — or  'twidden  be 
so  quare  for  'im  to  be  forgivin'. 

Burlacombe.  Yii  goo  an'  make  un  a  gUde  'ot  drink. 

Mrs.  Burlacombe.  Poor  soul !  What'll  'e  dli  now, 
I  wonder  ?  [Under  her  breath]  'E's  comin' ! 

She    goes    hurriedly.     Burlacombe,    vdth    a 
61 


62  A  BIT  O'  LOVE  act  hi 

startled   look   back,   wavers   and   makes   to 

follow  her,  but  stops  undecided  in  the  inner 

doorway.    Strangway  comes  in  from  the 

darkness.    He    turns   to    the    vnndow   and 

drops  overcoat  and  hat  and  the  church  key 

on  the  vnndow-seat,  looking  about  him  as 

men  do  when  too  hard  driven,  and  never 

fixing  his  eyes  long  enough  on  anything  to 

see  it.    BuBLACOMBE,  closing  the  door  into 

the  house,  advances  a  step.    At  the  sound 

Strangway  f<ices  round. 

BuRLACOMBE.  I  wanted  for  yii  to  know,  zurr,  that 

me  an'  mine  'adn't  nothin*  to  dii  wi'  that  darned 

fulishness,  just  now. 

Strangway.  [With  a  ghost  of  a  smile]  Thank  you, 
Burlacombe.  It  doesn't  matter.  It  doesn't  matter  a 
bit. 

BuRiiACX)MBE.  I  'ope  yU  won't  take  no  notice  of  it. 
Like  a  lot  o'  silly  bees  they  get.  [After  an  uneasy 
pause]  YU'U  excuse  me  spakin'  of  this  momin',  an' 
what  'appened.  'Tes  a  brave  pity  it  cam'  on  y\l  so 
sudden-like  before  yii  'ad  time  to  think.  'Tes  a  sort 
o'  thing  a  man  shlide  zet  an'  chew  upon.  Certainly 
'tes  not  a  bit  o'  ylise  goin'  against  human  nature.  Ef 
yll  don't  stand  up  for  yiireself  there's  no  one  else  not 
goin'  to.  'Tes  ylire  not  'avin'  done  that  'as  made 
'em  so  rampageous.  [Stealing  another  look  at  Strang- 
way] Yu'll  excuse  me,  zurr,  spakin'  of  it,  but  'tes 
amazin'  sad  to  zee  a  man  let  go  his  own,  without  a 
word  o'  darin'.     'Tes  as  ef  'e  'ad  no  passions-like. 


Bc.  I  A  BIT  O'  LOVE  63 

Strangway.  Look  at  me,  Burlacombe. 

BuRiiAcoMBE  looks  wp,  trying  hard  to  keep 
his  eyes  on  Strangway 's,  thai  seem  to  burn 
in  his  thin  face. 
Strangway.  Do  I  look  like  that?    Please,  please! 
[He  touches  his  breast]  I've  too  much  here.    Please ! 

Burlacombe.  [With  a  sort  of  startled  respect]  Well, 
zurr,  'tes  not  for  me  to  zay  nothin',  certainly. 

He  turns  and  after  a  slow  look  back  at  Strang- 
way goes  out. 
Strangway.  [To  himself]  Passions!    No  passions! 
Ha! 

The  outer  door  is  opened  and  Ivy  Burlacombe 
appears,  and,  seeing  him,  stops.  Then, 
coming  softly  towards  him,  she  speaks 
timidly. 

Ivy.  Oh!  Mr.  Strangway,  Mrs.  Bradmere's  comin' 
from  the  Rectory.  I  ran  an'  told  'em.  Oh !  'twaa 
awful. 

Strangway  starts,  stares  at  her,  and  turning 
on  his  heel,  goes  into  the  house.  Ivy's  face 
is  all  puckered,  as  if  she  were  on  the  point 
of  tears.  There  is  a  gentle  scratching  at  the 
door,  which  has  not  been  quite  closed. 

Voice  of  Gladys.  [Whispering]  Ivy !    Come  on ! 
Ivy.  I  won't. 

Voice  op  Mercy.  Yu  must.  Us  can't  dii  with- 
out yli. 


64  A  BIT  O'  LOVE  act  hi 

Ivy.  [Going  to  the  door]  I  don't  want  to. 
Voice  of  Gladys.  "Naughty  maid,  she  won't  come 
out,"    AhldU'ee! 

Voice  op  Connie.  Tim  Clyst  an'  Bobbie's  comin'; 
us'll  only  be  six  anyway.  Us  can't  dance  "figure  of 
eight"  without  yli. 

Ivy.  [Stamping  her  foot]  I  don't  want  to  dance  at 
all!    I  don't. 

Mercy.  Aw!  She's  temper.  YU  can  bang  on 
tambourine,  then ! 

Gladys.  [Running  in]  Quick,  Ivy !  Here's  the  old 
grey  mare  comin'  down  the  green.    Quick. 

With  whispering  and  scuffling,  gurgling  and 
squeaking,  the  reluctant  Ivy's  hand  is  caught 
and  she  is  jerked  away.    In  their  haste  they 
have  left  the  door  open  behind  them. 
Voice  of  Mrs.  Bradmere.  [Outside]  Who's    that? 
She  knocks  loudly,   and  rings  a  bell;    then, 
toiihoui  waiting,  comes  in  through  the  open 
door. 
Noting  the  overcoat  and  hoi  on  the  vrindow-sill 
she  moves  across  to  ring  the  bell.     But  as 
she  does  so,  Mrs.  Burlacombe,  fdknoed  by 
BuRLACOMBE,  comes  in  from  the  house. 
Mrs.  Bradmere.  This  disgraceful  business !  Where's 
Mr.  Strangway?    I  see  he's  in. 

Mrs.  Burlacombe.  Yes,  m'm,  he'm  in — but — but 
Burlacombe  dli  zay  he'm  terrible  upzet. 

Mits.  Bradmere.  I  should  think  su.  I  must  see 
him — at  once. 


sc.  I  A  BIT  O'  LOVE  65 

Mrs.  Burlacoaibe.  I  doubt  bed's  the  best  place 
for  'un,  an'  a  glide  'ot  drink.  Burlacombe  zays  he'm 
like  a  man  standin'  on  the  edge  of  a  cliff,  and  the 
laste  tipsy  o'  wind  might  throw  un  over. 

Mrs.  Bradmere.  [To  Burlacombe]  You've  seen 
him,  then? 

Burlacombe.  Yeas;  an'  I  don't  like  the  liike  of 
un — not  a  little  bit,  I  don't. 

Mrs.  Burlacombe.  [Almost  to  herselfl  Poor  soul; 
'e've  a-'ad  tu  much  to  try  un  this  yer  long  time 
past.  I've  a-seen  'tis  sperrit  comin'  thrii  'is  body, 
as  yii  might  zay.  He's  torn  to  bits,  that's  what 
'tis. 

Burlacombe.  'Twaa  a  praaper  cowardly  thing  to 
hiss  a  man  when  he's  down.  But  'twas  natural  til, 
in  a  manner  of  spakin'.  But  'tesn't  that  troublin' 
'im.  'Tes  in  here  [touching  his  forehead],  along  of  his 
wife,  to  my  thinkin'.  They  zay  'e've  a-known  about 
'er  afore  she  went  away.  Think  of  what  'e've  'ad 
to  kape  in  all  this  time.  'Tes  enough  to  drive  a  man 
silly  after  that.  I've  a-locked  my  gun  up.  I  see  a 
man  liike  like  that  once  before — an'  sure  enough  'e 
was  dead  in  the  mornin' ! 

Mrs.  Bradmere.  Nonsense,  Burlacombe !  [roMRS. 
Burlacombe]  Go  and  tell  him  I  want  to  see  him — 
must  see  him.  [Mrs.  Burlacombe  goes  into  the  house] 
And  look  here,  Burlacombe;  if  we  catch  any  one, 
man  or  woman,  talking  of  this  outside  the  village, 
it'll  be  the  end  of  their  tenancy,  whoever  they  may  be. 
Let  them  all  know  that.    I'm  glad  he  threw  that 


66  A  BIT  O'   LOVE  act  hi 

drunken  fellow  out  of  the  window,  though  it  was  a 
little 

BuRiiAcoMBE.  Aye!  The  nUspapers  would  be 
praaper  glad  of  that,  for  a  tiddy  bit  o'  niise. 

Mrs.  Bradmere.  My  goodness!  Yes!  The  men 
are  all  up  at  the  inn.  Go  and  tell  them  what  I  said 
— Ws  not  to  get  ahoui.    Go  at  once,  Burlacombe. 

BuRiiACOMBE.  Must  be  a  turrable  job  for  'im,  every 
one's  knowin'  about  'is  wife  like  this.  He'm  a  proud 
man  tli,  I  think.     'Tes  a  funny  business  altogether ! 

Mrs.  Bradmere.  Horrible !  Poor  fellow !  Now, 
come !    Do  your  best,  Burlacombe ! 

Burlacombe  touches  his  forelock  and  goes. 
Mrs.  Bradmere  stands  quite  still,  think- 
ing. Then  going  to  the  photograph,  she 
stares  up  at  it. 

Mrs.  Bradmere.  You  baggage ! 

Strangway  has  come  in  noiselessly,  and  is 
standing  just  behind  her.  She  turns,  and 
sees  him.  There  is  something  so  still,  so 
startlingly  still  in  his  figure  and  white  face, 
that  she  cannot  for  the  moment  find  her 
voice. 

Mrs.  Bradmere.  [At  last]  This  is  most  distressing. 
I'm  deeply  sorry.  [Then,  as  he  does  not  answer,  she 
goes  a  step  closer]  I'm  an  old  woman;  and  old  women 
must  take  liberties,  you  know,  or  they  couldn't  get 
on  at  all.  Come  now !  Let's  try  and  talk  it  over 
calmly  and  see  if  we  can't  put  things  right. 


Bc.  I  A  BIT  O'  LOVE  67 

Stbangwat.  You  were  very  good  to  come;  but  I 
would  rather  not. 

Mrs.  Bradmebe.  I  know  you're  in  as  grievous 
trouble  as  a  man  can  be. 

Strangwat.  Yes. 

Mrs.  Bradmere.  [With  a  little  sound  of  sympcUhy] 
What  are  you — thirty-five?  I'm  sixty-eight  if  I'm 
a  day — old  enough  to  be  your  mother.  I  can  feel 
what  you  must  have  been  through  all  these  months, 
I  can  indeed.  But  you  know  you've  gone  the  wrong 
way  to  work.  We  aren't  angels  down  here  below! 
And  a  son  of  the  Church  can't  act  as  if  for  himself 
alone.    The  eyes  of  every  one  are  on  him. 

Stbangway.  [Taking  the  church  key  from  the  mndow- 
sUl]  Take  this,  please. 

Mrs.  Bradmebe.  No,  no,  no!  Jarland  deserved 
all  he  got.    You  had  great  provocation 

Strangway.  It's  not  Jarland.  [Holding  out  the  key] 
Please  take  it  to  the  Rector.  I  beg  his  forgiveness. 
[Touching  his  breast]  There's  too  much  I  can't  speak 
of — can't  make  plain.    Take  it  to  him,  please. 

Mrs.  Bradmebe.  Mr.  Strangway — I  don't  accept 
this.  I  am  sure  my  husband — the  Church — will  never 
accept 

Stbangway.  Take  it ! 

Mrs.  Bradmere.  [Almost  unconsciously  taking  it] 
Mind!  We  don't  accept  it.  You  must  come  and 
talk  to  the  Rector  to-morrow.  You're  overwrought. 
You'll  see  it  all  in  another  light,  then. 


68  A  BIT  O'  LOVE  act  in 

Strangwat.  [With  a  strange  smile]  Perhaps.  [Lift- 
ing the  blind]  Beautiful  night!  Couldn't  be  more 
beautiful ! 

Mrs.  Bradmebe.  [Startled — softly]  Don't  turn  away 
from  those  who  want  to  help  you !  I'm  a  grumpy 
old  woman,  but  I  can  feel  for  you.  Don't  try  and 
keep  it  all  back,  like  this !  A  woman  would  cry,  and 
it  would  all  seem  clearer  at  once.  Now  won't  you 
let  me ? 

Stranqway.  No  one  can  help,  thank  you, 

Mrs.  Bradmebe.  Come!  Things  haven't  gone 
beyond  mending,  really,  if  you'll  face  them.  [Point- 
ing to  the  photograph]  You  know  what  I  mean.  We 
dare  not  foster  immorality. 

Strangwat.  [Quivering  as  at  a  jabbed  nerve]  Don't 
speak  of  that ! 

Mrs.  Bradmere.  But  think  what  you've  done,  Mr. 
Strangway !  If  you  can't  take  your  wife  back,  surely 
you  must  divorce  her.  You  can  never  help  her  to 
go  on  like  this  in  secret  sin. 

Strangwat.  Torture  her — one  way  or  the  other? 

Mrs.  Bradmere.  No,  no;  I  want  you  to  do  as  the 
Church — as  all  Christian  society  would  wish.  Come ! 
You  can't  let  this  go  on.  My  dear  man,  do  your 
duty  at  all  costs ! 

Strangwat.  Break  her  heart? 

Mrs.  Bradmere.  Then  you  love  that  woman — more 
than  God ! 

Strangwat.  [Hm  face  quivering]  Love ! 

Mrs.  Bradmere.  They  told  me —    Yes,  and  I  can 


Bc.  I  A  BIT  O'  LOVE  69 

see  you're  in  a  bad  way.  Come,  pull  yourself  to- 
gether !    You  can't  defend  what  you're  doing. 

STRA.NGWAY.  I  do  uot  try. 

Mbs.  Bbadmere.  I  m2«<  get  you  to  see !  My  father 
was  a  clergyman;  I'm  married  to  one;  I've  two 
sons  in  the  Church.  I  know  what  I'm  talking 
about.  It's  a  priest's  business  to  guide  the  people's 
lives. 

Strangwat.  [Very  low]  But  not  mine!    No  more! 

Mrs.  Bradmere.  [Looking  at  him  shrewdly]  There's 
something  very  queer  about  you  to-night.  You  ought 
to  a  see  doctor. 

Strangwat.  [A  smile  coming  and  going  on  his  lips] 
If  I  am  not  better  soon 

Mrs.  Bradmere.  I  know  it  must  be  terrible  to  feel 
that  everybody —  [A  convulsive  shiver  passes  over 
Strangway,  and  he  shrinks  against  the  door]  But 
come !  Live  it  down !  \With  anger  growing  at  his 
silence]  Live  it  down,  man !  You  can't  desert  your 
post — and  let  these  villagers  do  what  they  like  with 
us?  Do  you  realize  that  you're  letting  a  woman, 
who  has  treated  you  abominably — yes,  abominably 
— go  scot-free,  to  live  comfortably  with  another  man  ? 
What  an  example ! 

Strangway.  Will  you,  please,  not  speak  of  that ! 

Mrs.  Bradmere.  I  must!  This  great  Church  of 
ours  is  based  on  the  rightful  condemnation  of  wrong- 
doing. There  are  times  when  forgiveness  is  a  sin, 
Michael  Strangway.  You  must  keep  the  whip  hand. 
You  must  fight ! 


70  A  BIT  O'  LOVE  act  hi 

Strangwat.  Fight!  [Totiching  his  heart]  My  fight 
is  here.  Have  you  ever  been  in  hell?  For  months 
and  months — burned  and  longed;  hoped  against  hope; 
killed  a  man  in  thought  day  by  day?  Never  rested, 
for  love  and  hate?  I — condemn!  I — judge!  No! 
It's  rest  I  have  to  find — somewhere — somehow — rest! 
And  how — how  can  I  find  rest? 

Mrs.  Bradmere.  [Who  has  listened  to  his  outburst 
in  a  sort  of  coma]  You  are  a  strange  man !  One  of 
these  days  you'll  go  off  your  head  if  you  don't  take 
care. 

Strangwat.  [Smiling]  One  of  these  days  the  flowers 
will  grow  out  of  me;   and  I  shall  sleep. 

Mrs.  Bradmere  stares  at  his  smiling  face  a 

long  moment  in  silence,  then  unih  a  little 

sound,  half  sniff,  half  snort,  she  goes  to  the 

door.     There  she  halts. 

Mrs.  Bradmere.  And  you  mean  to  let  all  this  go 

on —    Your  wife 

Strangwat.  Go  !    Please  go ! 
Mrs.  Bradmere.  Men   like   you   have   been   bur- 
ied   at   cross-roads    before    now !    Take    care !    God 
punishes ! 
Strangwat.  Is  there  a  God  ? 

Mrs.  Bradmere.  Ah !  [With  finality]  You  must  see 
a  doctor. 

Seeing  thai  the  look  on  his  face  does  not  change, 
she  opens  the  door,  and  hurries  away  into 
the  moonlight. 
Strangwat  crosses  the  room  to  where  his  unfe's 


Bc.  I  A  BIT  O'  LOVE  71 

picture  hangs,  and  stands  before  it,  his  hands 
grasping  the  frame.  Then  he  takes  it  from 
the  wall,  and  lays  it  face  upwards  on  the 
window-seat. 
Strangwat.  [To  himself]  Gone!  What  is  there, 
now? 

The  sound  of  an  owVs  hooting  is  floating  in, 
and   of  voices  from   the  green   outside   the 
inn. 
Strangwat.  [To    himself]  Gone!    Taken    faith — 
hope — life ! 

Jim   Bere   comes   wandering    into   the   open 
doorway. 
Jim  Bere.  Glide  avenin',  zurr. 

At  his  slow  gait,  with  his  feeble  smile,  he  comes 

in,  and  standing  by  the  window-seat  beside 

the  long  dark  coat  that  still  lies  there,  he 

looks  down   at  Strangwat   with  his   lost 

eyes. 

Jim.  Yii  threw  un  out  of  winder.    I  cud  'ave,  once, 

I  cud.  [Strangwat   neither  moves  nor  speaks;    and 

Jim  Bere  goes  on  with  his  unimaginably  slow  speech] 

They'm  laughin'  at  yli,  zurr.    An'  so  I  come  to  tell 

'ee   how   to   dii.     'Twas   full   miine — when   I   caught 

'em,  him  an'  my  girl.    I  caught  'em.  \With  a  strange 

and  awf id  flash  of  fire]  I  did;   an'  I  tuk  un  [He  takes 

up  Strangwat's  coat  and  grips  it  with  his  trembling 

hands,   as  a  man  grips   another^s   neck]  like   that — I 

tuk  un. 


78  A  BIT  O'   LOVE  act  hi 

As  the  coat  falls,  like  a  body  out  of  which  the 
breath  has  been  squeezed,  Strang  way,  rising, 
catches  U. 

Stbangway.  [Gripping  the  coat]  And  he  fell ! 

He  lets  the  coat  fall  on  the  floor,  and  puts  his 
foot  on  it.  Then,  staggering  back,  he  leans 
against  the  window. 

Jim.  YU  see,  I  loved  'er — I  did.  [The  lost  look  comes 
back  to  his  eyes]  Then  somethin' — I  dunno — and — 
and —  [He  lifts  his  hand  and  passes  it  up  and  down 
his  side]  'Twas  like  this  for  ever. 

[They  gaze  at  each  other  in  silence. 

Jm.  [At  last]  I  come  to  tell  yii.  They'm  all  laughin' 
at  yli.  But  yii'm  strong — yli  go  over  to  Durford  to 
that  doctor  man,  an'  take  un  like  I  did.  [He  tries 
again  to  make  the  sign  of  squeezing  a  man's  neck]  They 
can't  laugh  at  yil  no  more,  then.  Tha's  what  I  come 
to  tell  yli.  Tha's  the  way  for  a  Christian  man  to  dli. 
Glide  naight,  zurr.    I  come  to  tell  yee. 

Strangway  motions  to  him  in  silence.  And, 
very  slowly,  Jim  Bere  passes  out. 

The  voices  of  men  coming  down  the  green  are 
heard. 

Voices.  Glide  naight,  Tam.  Glide  naight,  old 
Jim! 

Voices.  Glide  naight,  Mr.  Trustaford.  'Tes  a  won- 
derful fine  mline. 


8C.  I  A  BIT  O'  LOVE  73 

Voice  of  Trustaford.  Ah!    'Tes   a  brave   mline 
for  th'  poor  old  curate ! 

Voice.  "My  'eart  'E  lighted  not!" 

Trustaford's  laugh,  and  the  rattling,  fainter 
and  fainter,  of  wheels.  A  spasm  seizes  on 
Strangw ay's /ace,  as  he  stands  there  hy  the 
open  door,  his  hand  grips  his  throat;  he 
looks  from  side  to  side,  as  if  seeking  a  way 
of  escape. 


curtain. 


SCENE  II 

The  BuRLACOMBEs'  high  and  nearly  empty  barn.  A 
lantern  is  hung  by  a  rope  that  lifts  the  bales  of 
straw,  to  a  long  ladder  leaning  against  a  rafter. 
This  gives  all  the  light  there  is,  save  for  a  slender 
track  of  moonlight,  slanting  in  from  the  end,  where 
the  two  great  doors  are  not  quite  closed.  On  a  rude 
bench  in  front  of  a  few  remaining,  stacked,  square- 
cut  bundles  of  last  year's  hay,  sits  Tibby  Jarland, 
a  bit  of  apple  in  her  Tnoidh,  sleepily  beating  on  a 
tambourine.  With  stockinged  feet  Gladys,  Ivy, 
Connie,  and  Mercy,  Tim  Clyst,  and  Bobbie 


74  A  BIT  O'  LOVE  act  hi 

Jabland,  a  boy  of  fifteen,  are  dancing  a  truncaied 
"Figure  of  Eight";  and  their  shadows  are  danc- 
ing alongside  on  the  vdoRs.  Shoes  and  some  apples 
have  been  thrown  down  dose  to  the  side  door  through 
which  they  have  come  in.  Now  and  then  Ivr,  the 
smallest  and  best  of  the  dancers,  ejacvlaies  toords 
of  direction,  and  one  of  the  youths  grunts  or 
breathes  loudly  out  of  the  confusion  of  his  mind. 
Save  for  this  and  the  dumb  beat  and  jingle  of  the 
sleepy  tambourine,  there  is  no  sound.  The  dance 
comes  to  its  end,  but  the  drowsy  Tibet  goes  on 
beating. 
Mercy.  That'll  dU,  Tibby;  we're  finished.  Ate 
yiire  apple.  [The  stolid  Tibby  eats  her  apple. 

Clyst.  [In   his   teasing,   excitable   voice],  Yli    maids 
don't  dance  'alf's  well  as  us  dii.    Bobbie  'e's  a  great 
dancer.     'E  dance  vine.    I'm  a  glide  dancer,  meself. 
Gladys.  A'n't  yii  conceited  just? 
Clyst.  Aw!    Ah!    Yli'll   give   me   kiss   for   that. 
[He  chases,  but  cannot  catch  that  slippery  white  figure] 
Can't  she  glimmer ! 
Meecy.  Gladys !    Up  ladder ! 
Clyst.  YU  go  up  ladder;  I'll  catch  *ee  then.    Naw, 
yii  maids,  don't  yli  give  her  succour.    That's  not  vair. 
[Catching  hold  of  Mercy,  who  gives  a  little  squeal. 
CoifNiE.  Mercy,  don't!    Mrs.  Burlacombe'll  hear. 
Ivy,  go  an'  peek. 

[Ivy  goes  to  the  side  door  and  peers  through. 

Clyst.  [Abandoning  the  chase  and  picking  up  an 

apple — ihey   all   have   the  joyous   irresponsibility   thai 


sc.  II  A  BIT  O'   LOVE  75 

attends  forbidden  doings]  Ya-as,  this  is  a  glide  apple. 

Luke  at  Tibby ! 

Tibet,  overcome  by  drowsiness,  has  fallen 
back  into  the  hay,  asleep.  Gladys,  leaning 
against  the  hay  breaks  into  humming: 

"There  cam'  three  diikes  a-ridin',  a-ridin',  a-ridin'. 
There  cam'  three  diikes  a  ridin' 
With  a  ransy-tansy  tay !" 

Clyst.  Us  *as  got  on  vine;  us'U  get  prize  for  our 
dancin'. 

Connie.  There  won't  be  no  prize  if  Mr.  Strangway 
goes  away.  'Tes  funny  'twas  Mrs.  Strangway  started 
us. 

Ivy.  [From  the  door]  'Twas  wicked  to  hiss  him. 

[A  momeni^s  hush. 

Clyst.  'Twasn't  I. 

Bobbie.  I  never  did. 

Gladys.  Oh!  Bobbie,  yli  did!  YU  blew  in  my 
ear. 

Clyst.  'Twas  the  praaper  old  wind  in  the  trees. 
Did  make  a  brave  noise,  zurely. 

Mercy.  'E  shuld'n'  'a  let  my  skylark  go. 

Clyst.  [Out  of  sheer  contradictoriness]  Ya-as,  *e 
shiide,  then.  What  dii  yii  want  with  th'  birds  of  the 
air?    They'm  no  gUde  to  yii. 

Ivy.  [Mournfully]  And  now  he's  goin'  away. 

Clyst.  Ya-as;  'tes  a  pity.  He's  the  best  man  I 
ever  seen  since  I  was  comin'  from  my  mother.  He's 
a  glide  man.    He'm  got  a  zad  face,  sure  enough,  though. 


76  A   BIT  O'   LOVE  act  hi 

Ivy.  Glide  folk  always  'ave  zad  faces. 

Clyst.  I  knii  a  glide  man — 'e  sold  pigs — very  glide 
man:  'e  'ad  a  blidiful  bright  vace  like  the  mline. 
[Touching  his  stomach]  I  was  sad,  meself,  once.  'Twas 
a  funny  scrabblin'-like  feelin'. 

Gladys.  If  'e  go  away,  whll's  goin'  to  finish  us  for 
confirmation  ? 

Connie.  The  Rector  and  the  old  grey  mare. 

Mercy.  I  don'  want  no  more  finishin';  I'm  con- 
firmed enough. 

Clyst.  Ya-as;  yli'm  a  biity. 

Gladys.  Suppose  we  all  went  an'  asked  'im  not 
to  go? 

Ivy.  'Twouldn't  be  no  glide. 

Connie.  Where's  'e  goin'  ? 

Mercy.  He'll  go  to  London,  of  course. 

Ivy.  He's  so  gentle;  I  think  'e'U  go  to  an  island, 
where  there's  nothin'  but  birds  and  beasts  and  flowers. 

Clyst.  Aye !   He'm  awful  fond  o'  the  dumb  things. 

Ivy.  They're  kind  and  peaceful;   that's  why. 

Clyst.  Aw!  Yli  see  tU  praaper  old  torn  cats; 
they'm  not  tli  peaceful,  after  that,  nor  kind 
naighther. 

Bobbie.  [Surprisingly]  If  'e's  sad,  per'aps  'e'U  go 
to  'Eaven. 

Ivy.  Oh !  not  yet,  Bobbie.     He's  tli  young. 

Clyst.  [Following  his  own  thouglds]  Ya-as.  'Tes 
a  funny  place,  tU,  nowadays,  judgin'  from  the 
papers. 

Gladys.  Wonder  if  there's  dancin'  in  'Eaven  ? 


sc.  n  A   BIT  O'   LOVE  77 

Ivy.  There's  beasts,  and  flowers,  and  waters,  and 
trees — 'e  told  us, 

Clyst.  Naw!  There's  no  dumb  things  in  'Eaven. 
Jim  Bere  'e  says  there  is !  'E  thinks  'is  old  cat's 
there. 

Ivy.  Yes.  [Dreamily]  There's  stars,  an'  owls,  an'  a 
man  playin'  on  the  flute.  Where  'tes  glide,  there 
must  be  miisic. 

Clyst,  Old  brass  band,  shuldn'  wonder,  like  th' 
Salvation  Army. 

Ivy.  [Putting  up  her  hands  to  an  imaginary  pipe] 
No;  'tis  a  boy  that  goes  so;  an'  all  the  dumb  things 
an'  all  the  people  goo  after  'im — like  this. 

She  marches  slowly,  playing  her  imaginary 
pipe,  and  one  by  one  they  all  fall  in  behind 
her,  padding  round  the  barn  in  their  stock- 
inged feet.  Passing  the  big  doors.  Ivy  throws 
them  open. 
An'  'tes  all  like  that  in  'Eaven. 

She  stands  there  gazing  out,  still  playing  on 
her  imaginary  pipe.    And  they  all  stand  a 
moment  silent,  staring  into  the  moonlight. 
Clyst.  'Tes  a  glory-be  full  mline  to-night ! 
Ivy.  a  goldie-cup — a  big  one.    An'  millions  o'  little 
goldie-cups  on  the  floor  of  'Eaven. 

Mercy.  Oh!  Bother  'Eaven!  Let's  dance  "Clap- 
perclaws" !    Wake  up,  Tibby  ! 

Gladys.  Clapperclaws,  clapperclaws !  Come  on, 
Bobbie — make  circle  ! 

Clyst.  Clapperclaws !    I  dance  that  one  fine. 


78  A  BIT  O'  LOVE  act  hi 

IvT.  [Taking  the  tambourine]  See,  Tibby;   like  this. 
She  hums  and  beats  gently,  then  restores  the 
tambourine  to  the  sleepy  Tibet,  who,  leak- 
ing, has  placed  a  piece  of  apple  in  her 
mouth. 

Connie.  'Tes  awful  difficult,  this  one. 
Ivy.  [Illustrating]  No;  yli  just  jump,  an'  clap  yUre 
'ands.    Lovely,  lovely! 
Cltst.  Like  ringin'  bells !    Come  ahn ! 

Tibby  begins  her  drowsy  beating.  Ivy  hwma 
the  tune;  they  dance,  and  their  shadows 
dance  again  upon  the  walls.  When  she  has 
beaten  but  a  few  moments  on  tJie  tambourine, 
Tibby  is  overcome  once  more  by  sleep  and 
falls  back  again  into  her  nest  of  hay,  with 
her  little  shoed  feet  just  visible  over  the  edge 
of  the  bench.  Ivy  catches  up  the  tambourine, 
and  to  her  beating  and  humming  the  dancers 
dance  on. 

Suddenly  Gladys  stops  like  a  wild  animal 
surprised,  and  cranes  her  neck  towards  the 
side  door. 

Connie.  [Whispering]  What  is  it? 
Gladys.  [Whispering]  I    hear — some    one — comin' 
across  the  yard. 

She  leads  a  noiseless  scamper  towards  the  shoes. 
Bobbie  Jarland  shins  up  the  ladder  and 
seizes  the  lantern.  IvY  drops  the  tambourine. 
They  all  fly  to  the  big  doors,  and  vanish  into 


sc.  II  A  BIT  O'  LOVE  79 

the  moonlight,  jmUing  the  doors  nearly  to 
again  after  them. 

There  is  the  sound  of  scrabbling  at  the  latch 
of  the  side  door,  and  Strangway  comes  into 
the  nearly  dark  bam.  Out  in  the  night 
the  owl  is  still  hooting.  He  closes  the  door, 
and  that  sound  is  lost.  Like  a  man  walk- 
ing in  his  sleep,  he  goes  up  to  the  ladder, 
takes  the  rope  in  his  hand,  and  makes  a 
noose.  He  can  be  heard  breathing,  and  in 
the  darkness  the  motions  of  his  hands  are 
dimly  seen,  freeing  his  throat  and  putting 
the  noose  round  his  neck.  He  stands  sway- 
ing to  and  fro  at  the  foot  of  the  ladder;  then, 
with  a  sigh,  sets  his  foot  on  it  to  mount. 
One  of  the  big  doors  creaks  and  opens  in 
the  wind,  letting  in  a  broad  path  of  moon- 
light. 

Strangway  stops;  freeing  his  neck  from,  the 
noose,  he  walks  quickly  up  the  track  of 
moonlight,  whitened  from  head  to  foot,  to 
close  the  doors. 

The  sound  of  his  boots  on  the  bare  floor  has 
awakened  Tibby  Jarland.  Struggling 
out  of  her  hay  nest  she  stands  staring  at  his 
whitened  figure,  and  bursts  suddenly  into 
a  wail. 

Tibby.     0-oh!     Mercy!     Where     are     yii?     I'm 
frightened !    I'm  frightened !    O-oooo ! 


80  A  BIT  O'  LOVE  act  hi 

Strangwat.  [Turning — startled]  Who's  that  ?    Who 
is  it? 
TiBBY.  0-oh !    A  ghosty !    Oo-ooo ! 
Strangway.  [Going  to  her  quickly]  It's  me,  Tibby 
— Tib — only  me! 
Tibby.  I  see'd  a  ghosty. 

Strangway.  [Taking  her  up]  No,  no,  my  bird,  you 
didn't !    It  was  me. 

Tibby.  [Burying  her  face  against  him]  I'm  frighted. 
It  was  a  big  one.  [She  gives  tongue  again]  0-o-oh! 

Strangway.  There,  there!    It's  nothing  but  me. 
Look! 
Tibby.  No.  [She  peeps  out  all  the  same. 

Strangway.  See!    It's  the  moonHght  made  me  all 
white.    See !    You're  a  brave  girl  now  ? 
Tibby.  [Cautiously]  I  want  my  apple. 

She  points  towards  her  nest.    Strangway  car- 
ries her  there,  picks  up  an  apple,  and  gives 
it  her.    Tibby  takes  a  bite. 
Tibby.  I  want  my  tambouline. 
Strangway.  [Giving  her  the  tambourine,  and  carry- 
ing her  back  into  the  track  of  moonlight]  Now  we're 
both  ghosties !    Isn't  it  funny  ? 
Tibby.  [Doubtfully]  Yes. 

Str.\ngway.  See!    The    moon's    laughing    at    us! 
See  ?    Laugh  then ! 

Tibby,  tambourine  in  one  hand  and  apple  in 
the  other,  smiles  stolidly.  He  sets  her  down 
on  the  ladder,  and  stands,  holding  her  level 
vnth  him. 


8c.  11  A  BIT  O'  LOVE  81 

TiBBY.  [Solemnly]  I'se  still  frightened. 

Strangway.  No!  Full  moon,  Tibby!  Shall  we 
wish  for  it? 

Tibby.  Full  miine. 

Strangway.  Moon !  We're  wishing  for  you.  Moon, 
moon ! 

Tibby.  Miine,  we're  wishin'  for  yii ! 

Strangway.  What  do  you  wish  it  to  be  ? 

Tibby.  Bright  new  shillin' ! 

Strangway.  A  face. 

Tibby.  Shillin',  a  shillin' ! 

Strangway.  [Taking  out  a  shilling  and  spinning  it  so 
that  it  falls  into  her  jyinafore]  See !  Your  wish  comes 
true. 

Tibby.  Oh!  [Putting  the  shilling  in  her  mouth] 
Miine's  still  there ! 

Strangway.  Wish  for  me,  Tibby ! 

Tibby.  Miine,  I'm  wishin'  for  yii ! 

Strangway.  Not  yet ! 

Tibby.  Shall  I  shake  my  tambouline? 

Strangway.  Yes,  shake  your  tambouline. 

Tibby.  [Shaking  her  tambourine]  Miine,  I'm  shakin' 
at  yii. 

Strangway  lays  his  hand  suddenly  on  the 
rope,  and  swings  it  up  on  to  the  beam. 

Tibby.  What  d'yu  dU  that  for? 

Strangway.  To  put  it  out  of  reach.     It's  better 

Tibby.  Why  is  it  better?  [She  stares  up  at  him. 

Strangway.  Come  along,  Tibby !  [He  carries  her  to 


8£  A  BIT  O'  LOVE  act  hi 

tJie  big  doors,  and  sets  her  down]  See!    All  asleep! 
The  birds,  and  the  fields,  and  the  moon! 

TiBBY.  MUne,  miine,  we're  wishing  for  yli ! 

Strangway.  Send  her  your  love,  and  say  good- 
night. 

TiBBY.  [Blomng  a  kiss]  Good-night,  miine ! 

From  the  bam  roof  a  little  white  dove's  feather 
comes  floating  dovm  in  the  wind.  Tibby 
follows  it  with  her  hand,  catches  it,  and  holds 
it  wp  to  him. 

Tibby.  [Chuckling]  LUke.  The  mline's  sent  a  bit 
o'  love! 

Strangway.  [Taking  the  feather]  Thank  you,  Tibby ! 
I  want  that  bit  o'  love.  [Very  faint,  comes  the  sound 
of  music]  Listen ! 

Tibby.  It's  Miss  Willis,  playin'  on  the  pianny ! 

Strangway.  No;  it's  Love;  walking  and  talking 
in  the  world. 

Tibby.  [Dubiously]  Is  it? 

Strangway.  [Pointing]  See!  Everything  coming 
out  to  listen!  See  them,  Tibby!  All  the  little 
things  with  pointed  ears,  children,  and  birds,  and 
flowers,  and  bunnies;  and  the  bright  rocks,  and — 
men !  Hear  their  hearts  beating !  And  the  wind 
listening ! 

Tibby.  I  can't  hear — nor  I  can't  see ! 

Strangway.  Beyond —  [To  himself]  They  are — 
they  must  be;  I  swear  they  are !  [Then,  catching 
sight  of  Tibby 's  amazed  eyes]  And  now  say  good-bye 
to  me. 


8c.  II  A  BIT  O'  LOVE  83 

Tibet.  Where  yil  goin'? 
Strangway.  I  don't  know,  Tibby. 
Voice  of  Mercy.  [Distant    and    caviiotis]  Tibby! 
Tibby !    Where  are  yii  ? 

Strangway.  Mercy  calling;  run  to  her! 

Tibby  starts  off,  turns  back  and  lifts  her  face. 

He  bends  to  kiss  her,  and  flinging  her  arms 

round  his  neck,  she  gives  him  a  good  hug. 

Then,  knuckling  the  sleep  out  of  her  eyes, 

she  runs. 
Strangway   stands,   uncertain.     There   is   a 

sound  of  heavy  footsteps ;  a  man  clears  his 

throat,  dose  by. 

Strangway.  Who's  that? 

Cremer.  Jack  Cremer.  [The  big  man^s  figure  appears 
out  of  the  shadow  of  the  barn]  That  yii,  zurr  ? 

Strangway.  Yes,  Jack.    How  goes  it? 

Cremer.  'Tes  empty,  zurr.  But  I'll  get  on 
some'ow. 

Strangway.  You  put  me  to  shame. 

Cremer.  No,  zurr.  I'd  be  killin'  meself,  if  I  didn' 
feel  I  must  stick  it,  like  yii  zaid. 

They  stand  gazing  at  each  other  in  the  moon- 
light. 

Strangway.  [Very  low]  I  honour  you. 

Cremer.  What's  that?  [Then,  as  Strangway  does 
not  answer]  I'll  just  be  walkin' — I  won'  be  goin'  'ome 
to-night.     'Tes  the  full  miine — lucky. 

Strangway.  [Suddenly]  Wait  for  me  at  the  cross- 


84  A  BIT  O'  LOVE  act  hi 

roads,  Jack.    I'll  come  with  you.    Will  you  have  me, 
brother  ? 
Cremer.  Sure! 
Strangway.  Wait,  then. 
Cremer.  Aye,  zurr. 

With  his  heavy  tread  Cremer  passes  on.    And 

Strangway  leans  against  the  lintel  of  the 

door,  looking  at  the  moon,  that,  quite  full 

and  golden,  hangs  not  far  above  the  straight 

horizon,  where  the  trees  stand  small,  in  a 

row. 

Strangway.  [Lifting    his   hand   in   the   gesture   of 

prayer]  God,  of  the  moon  and  the  sun;    of  joy  and 

beauty,  of  loneliness  and  sorrow — give  me  strength  to 

go  on,  till  I  love  every  living  thing ! 

He  moves  away ,  following  Jack  Cremer.  The 
full  moon  shines;  the  owl  hoots;  and  sortie 
one  is  shaking  Tibby's  tambourine. 


the  end 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CAUFORNIA  LIBRARY,  LOS  ANGELES 

COLLEGE  LIBRARY 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


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